


































COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



































































































































J 









viA 























By James B. Hendryx 


Connie Morgan in Alaska 

Connie Morgan with the Mounted 

Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps 

Connie Morgan in the Fur Country 

Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country 

The Promise 

The Gun Brand 

The Texan 

The Gold Girl 

Prairie Flowers 

Snowdrift 

North 

Without Gloves 


X 



WITHOUT GLOVES 


BY 

JAMES B. HENDRYX 

AUTHOR OF 

“ THB PROMISE,” “ CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA,” BTC. 


$ 


G.P. Putnam’s Sons 

l^ewYork & London 
®3ic 3§UieWWker press! 
1924 






■'V; 




<S 


S“ 


■'O’ 


//- . ^ 




Copyright, 1924 
by 

James B. Hendryx 



Made in 


yv\,'yr %< A‘ rrw* ^ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I.—Thunderbolt Leonard ... 3 

II.—All Set..20 

III. —The Girl in the Domino Mask; . 31 

IV. —A Visit to Trenton .... 44 

V.—Lotta Rivoli Returns ... 60 

VI.—If I Lose? ...... 79 

VII.—Bull Larrigan Comes Back . . 96 

VIII.—The Double Double-Cross . . 106 

IX.—The Fight.118 

X.—The Get-Away.133 

XI.—Leonard Gets a Job . . . „ 151 

XII.—In the North Country . . . 162 

XIII. —Blodgett’s Number Eight . . 178 

XIV. —Mary MacAlister .... 193 

XV.—Fire Lines.211 

XVI.—Bucking the Storm .... 226 

iii 




iv Contents 

CHAPTER PAGB 

XVII. —Sam King Pays a Visit . . . 240 

XVIII. —At the Water Hole . . .251 

XIX. —Christmas at Number Eight . . 263 

XX. —The New Foreman .... 277 
XXI. —“Up Against It” .... 299 
XXII. —King Tries to Deal .... 313 
XXIII. —The House Committee . . . 330 

XXIV. —The Joint Committee . . . 350 

XXV. —Without Gloves . . 376 



WITHOUT GLOVES 



V 






; 


A 




















Without Gloves 


CHAPTER I 

THUNDERBOLT LEONARD 

Shirly Leonard, alias Thunderbolt Leonard, 
holding his cheap bath robe loosely about him, walked 
rapidly down the short aisle and climbed through the 
ropes that bounded the raised platform, closely fol¬ 
lowed by Red Casey, burdened with certain impedi¬ 
menta of the prize ring. 

It was Thunderbolt’s first appearance as a pro¬ 
fessional fighter, and he fervidly wished himself 
elsewhere. He was badly “rattled”—and the worst 
of it was, he knew it. 

“Sit down!” hissed a voice, and he glared into 
the face of Red Casey, as he settled himself upon 
the canvas stool that adorned his corner. He sud¬ 
denly realized that he hated Red Casey. Red had 
got him into this It was only for amusement that 
he had put on the gloves one night in the little 


3 


Without Gloves 


4 

Eureka Social Club across the river and since that 
night, a little more than a year ago, Red Casey, 
professional trainer at the club, had seen to it that 
he appeared in the arena for a work-out at least 
twice each week. One after another the amateurs 
of the club had gone down before him. Then the 
champions of other clubs had gone down. 

In a flash, as he sat blinking in the garish light, 
it occurred to him that he had liked the game. 
With a sickening chill at the pit of his stomach, he 
wondered at the thrills his successive victories had 
given him—especially his knockout of Pat Kava- 
naugh the lengthy champion of the Eagles. He rec¬ 
ollected his first battle with Kavanaugh and the 
depths of despair into which the profane and abusive 
“bawling out” he had received from Red Casey had 
plunged him when the Eagle champ had earned the 
decision at the end of the sixth round, with him, 
Leonard, clinging desperately to the ropes. But this 
humiliation had been more than counterbalanced 
by the flush and thrill of the return match when, in 
the first minute of the first round he had landed a 
swing that put the mighty Kavanaugh so soundly 
asleep that, had he been so minded, the referee could 
have counted ten thousand instead of the required 
ten. 

It was after that bout that the fertile brain of 


Thunderbolt Leonard 


5 


Red Casey had substituted the name Thunderbolt 
as a suitable appellation for “a guy dat kin knock 
’em cold in de foist.” It was after that bout, also, 
that Casey had began to press a point that he had 
previously only hinted at, namely that young 
Leonard should quit driving truck for the Metropol¬ 
itan Construction Company, and enter the list of 
professional fighters. He had listened to the glow¬ 
ing word pictures of Casey anent the rewards in 
fame and fortune that were waiting to shower them¬ 
selves upon him. Under the spell of Casey’s oratory 
the check for thirty dollars that was handed to him 
each Saturday by the cashier of the construction 
company dwindled to such piffling proportion that 
he became almost ashamed to present it for pay¬ 
ment. 

“T’irty bucks fer a week’s woik!” scoffed Casey 
contemptuously, “W’en any amount of clubs is wil¬ 
lin’ to kick in wid a century fer an hour’s woik in de 
ring! An’ w’en dey find out w’at youse kin do 
dey’ll be clawin’ all over one anuder to slip youse a 
grand, an ’tain’t long before youse kin laugh at a 
grand.” 

Leonard listened, but held onto his job. Daily 
as he hauled sand and gravel and lumber and cement 
over the streets of the great city, his brain reverted 
to the glowing word pictures of Red Casey. 


6 


Without Gloves 


Came then a day of excessive heat, during the 
long hours of which he had handled many sacks of 
cement. Sweat poured from every pore to mingle 
with the cement that found its way through the bags 
and coated his clothing and skin with a grey mud 
that caked and chafed and irritated. It was Satur¬ 
day and that evening the fingers that folded the pay 
check were stiff and sore. “Thirty case notes,” he 
muttered, as he climbed stiffly from his truck in the 
garage, “An’ Casey claims someone’s waitin’ to slip 
me a hundred fer punchin’ some guy in the jaw!” 

That night when he appeared at the Eureka Club, 
Casey swooped down upon him, and hustled him 
into an alley behind a row of lockers. The trainer’s 
eyes were shining, and as he talked, he prodded 
Leonard’s ribs with a stiff forefinger: “I seen Drey¬ 
fus, today, an’ we made a deal. He was over to 
the Eagle Club de night you paralyzed dat long 
stiff, Kavanaugh. An’ he was at de ringside de 
night you put away de China Kid.” 

“Who’s Dreyfus,” asked Leonard, indifferently, 
as he slowly opened and closed his fingers, stiff and 
sore from the gripping of cement sacks. 

“Don’t youse know who Bill Dreyfus is?” cried 
the horrified Casey. “De manager of de Bon Ton 
Athletic Club on East Houston Street! Well—w’en 
a guy gets a decision at de Bon Ton he’s dere! An’ 


Thunderbolt Leonard 


9 


lose out half a dozen times ’fore I gits wise dat de 
booze is nix-—an’ den it’s too late to hook on agin. 
Dey’re afraid to give me a try, ’cause dey figger I 
can’t stay off de booze. But, I be’n off it fer two 
years. I takes dis job ’cause it’s de best I kin git— 
see? De foist time I seen youse stripped, I says 
to meself, ‘Dere’s a guy dats built for a champ, if 
he’s got guts, an’ de head to match his build.’ So I 
starts to woik on youse, an’ it ain’t long till youse 
begun puttin’ ’em away. ’Course dey’s all ama- 
choors an’ ain’t no real fighters. But youse has got 
de head all right, an’ de speed an’ de punch. But, 
I’m tellin’ it to youse fer yer own good, kid. Dere’s 
a streak of yeller in youse dat’s got to come out 
’fore you git anywheres. I’ve know’d it ever sence 
dat foist battle wid Kavanaugh, an’ it’s showin’ 
now. Youse is afraid to fight Bull Larrigan—” 
A flush of anger reddened the younger man’s 
cheeks, and he was about to retort angrily, when 
Casey hastened on; “It ain’t no use to git sore about 
it. Gittin’ sore proves it’s true. Guys don’t git sore 
w’en you tell ’em t’ings about dereself dat’s lies. 
It’s w’en dey know it’s de troot, dey git sore. De 
yeller’s dere, an’ it’s got to come out—like a rotten 
toot’. I git youse all right, an’ I’m wise to de game. 
Ask anyone about old Red Casey an’ dey’ll tell 
youse dere ain’t no better trainer, an’ dey’ll tell 


IO 


Without Gloves 


youse Red took de count in de fight wid John Barley¬ 
corn—but he ain’t. Kid, I’m as good now as I ever 
was—an’ better. Give me de chanct to train youse 
—Git holt of a good manager, an’ youse’ll go clean 
to de top, er I don’t know de game, w’ich I do. 
We’ll t’row in togedder. Youse slip me w’at 
youse t’ink I’m wor’t. W’en youse git a little money, 
youse kin slip me a little, an’ w’en youse git more, I 
git more. If I ain’t satisfied, I’ll tell youse, an’ if 
we can’t fix it up, I’ll quit an’ git out. W’at do 
youse say?” 

Young Leonard’s big hand grasped the wiry hand 
of the trainer: “You’re on, Red,” he said with a 
rather sheepish grin, “An’—you’re right about me 
bein’ scairt to fight Bull Larrigan. I am scairt— 
scairt stiff. An’ I was scairt stiff in the ring with 
Kavanaugh. That’s why I hit him so hard—I was 
scairt of him.” 

Red Casey grinned: “Don’t I know it? An’ 
youse is goin’ to hit Bull Larrigan jest as hard— 
only youse has got to stall fer a few rounds foist. 
De sports wants to see a little fun fer dere 
money.” 

The following Monday morning Thunderbolt 
Leonard quit his job, and now, as he sat under the 
arc light whose huge reflector shot its full glare 
down into the ring, he gazed helplessly over the blur 


Thunderbolt Leonard n 

of upturned faces and heartily wished himself else¬ 
where. 

Red Casey moved about, close beside him, 
scrutinizing the lacings of a pair of gloves. Leonard 
glanced diagonally across the canvas covered floor 
to the empty stool in Larrigan’s corner. The crowd 
was becoming impatient. Loud-bawled calls for 
Larrigan, scattered at first, became more frequent 
and more vociferous. Leonard heard his own name 
mentioned, and realized that the crowd was “kid¬ 
ding” him. He swallowed, nervously, and shifted 
about on his stool. 

The whispered words of Casey, speaking out of 
the side of his mouth reached his ear: “Bat’s w’at 
always happens to new guys, kid. Dey’re tryin’ to 
git yer goat. It’s old stuff Bull Larrigan’s pullin’ 
—keepin’ a new guy waitin’ till de crowd gits his 
nanny. It shows Larrigan’s scairt of youse. Watch 
him, he’ll use all de tricks he knows. But, youse 
has got w’at he ain’t got, an’ dat’s de punch. Keep 
away from his rushes, an’ wait him out. W’en de 
chance comes, knock him fer a gool, kid, knock him 
fer a—” Red Casey’s voice was drowned in a roar 
from the crowd, and glancing across the ring, 
Leonard saw a robed figure step through the ropes. 
The next moment, the bath robe was tossed to the 
floor and Bull Larrigan stood in his green fighting 


12 


Without Gloves 


trunks grinning at the crowd, which cheered, and 
jeered, and “kidded.” Leonard’s swiftly appraising 
eye took in the details of his opponent’s figure at a 
glance; the short thick neck that supported a close- 
cropped bullet-shaped head, with a heavy undershot 
jaw, thick shoulders and arms that showed heavy 
muscles bunched into great knobs and knots; curly 
hair heavily matted upon a broad chest, and a thick 
waist with a very perceptible roll of fat where the 
trunk string encircled the paunch. Instantly he 
recollected the words of Red Casey: “He ain’t built 
fer de speed he shows. De speed’s in his head—it’s 
forced speed—wait him out—an’ w’en youse swing, 
swing hard.” 

Thunderbolt Leonard knew, in a dazed sort of 
way that he was upon his feet, that the bath robe 
had been stripped from his shoulders, and that a man 
was perfunctorily examining the tape bandages upon 
his hands. He heard his own name mentioned by 
a loud-mouthed man who stood in the ring, and 
managed to duck his head in acknowledgment of 
the hand-clapping and cheers of the crowd. He 
knew that Red Casey was tying on the gloves, and 
that he was again seated upon his stool, then a 
gong sounded, and he was upon his feet facing Bull 
Larrigan who, instead of leaping half way across 
the ring and boring in with a smothering rush, as 


Thunderbolt Leonard 


13 


Casey had predicted, was approaching cautiously, 
eyes narrowed, guard raised, and a sneering grin 
upon his lips. With Leonard still in a daze, the 
two half circled each other, when, without warning, 
Larrigan sprang straight in. In vain the younger 
man tried to guard the shower of blows that rained 
in on him. Before he knew it he was on the ropes 
and instinctively he clinched. As the blows showered 
upon him, Leonard’s head cleared. This was what 
he had expected—what Casey had predicted. The 
clinch was broken, Larrigan rushed again, and again 
Leonard brought up with the ropes biting into his 
back. Again he clinched, hugging close till the 
referee once more broke them apart. There was a 
stinging at the corner of his eye, and Leonard re¬ 
alized that the warm trickle that tickled his cheek 
was blood. The crowd was roaring encouragement 
to Larrigan whose third rush was stopped by the 
sound of the gong. 

The first round was decidedly Larrigan’s round. 

The cold water felt good and he returned Red 
Casey’s look of solicitation with a grin. “I’ll get 
him,” he whispered, as Casey whipped the towel up 
and down before his face. 

“Sure youse will,” hissed Casey, “But, sting him 
a little, dis round. Don’t take all de punishment. 
Reach him now an’ den, but guard an’ stall till de 


Without Gloves 


fift’ or sixt’. He’ll slow up den, an" dat’s de time 


Gong! 

Leonard was hardly upon his feet when Larrigan 
was upon him in a savage rush that had carried him 
clear across the ring. The crowd was all Larri- 
gan’s now, and Leonard, cool as a cucumber, heard 
the words of approbation and encouragement that 
greeted the rush of the Bull. “Eat him up!” “Kill 
the dub!” “Knock him through the ropes!” To 
Larrigan’s surprise, instead of meeting the rush with 
a futile guard, Leonard swiftly side-stepped and 
stung him with a well placed right to the jaw, which 
before the surprised Bull could put up his defence 
was followed by a long left, and a short right jab 
that brought blood from his lips. The crowd, that 
a moment before had been howling for his life blood, 
now cheered Leonard, who continued to force the 
fighting, without, however, landing a Wow. But the 
forcing was short lived, for recovering himself, 
Larrigan rushed again, and this time succeeded in 
once more crowding the youngster into the ropes. 
The round ended with Leonard stalling, and the 
crowd again with Larrigan. 

The third and fourth rounds were simply a series 
of rushes, with Leonard always on the defensive, 
and only now and then reaching his opponent with 



Thunderbolt Leonard 


15 


a well directed blow. But, Larrigan knew what the 
crowd did not know, that each blow of Leonard’s 
that landed, landed hard. He redoubled his efforts 
to smother the youngster and to get his nerve with 
the very speed of his hooks and jabs, with the re¬ 
sult that each round ended with Leonard on the 
ropes struggling vainly to ward off the furious 
onslaughts. * 

The crowd was loud in its demands that Larrigan 
finish the bout with a knockout. Thunderbolt 
Leonard was so palpably a dub that the fans felt 
aggrieved. Only at the ringside, a few of the wise 
ones, noting that between the rounds Larrigan’s 
over heavy paunch worked spasmodically as he 
sucked the air into his lungs, and that at the end 
of each round he sprawled more heavily upon the 
ropes, withheld decision, and hoped for that thrill 
that is dearest to the heart of the prize ring fan, 
the sudden and decisive rally of an apparently beaten 
man. 

In his corner Larrigan heard the cries for a knock¬ 
out, and he realized that he could deliver no knock¬ 
out. His hope of winning the decision rested upon 
two things, either the continuation of the bout to 
the end of the final round, the tenth; or his ability 
to make the youngster “lay down” by the ferocity 
of his rushes. Larrigan knew that this was 


l6 


Without Gloves 


Thunderbolt’s first fight in the professional ring, 
and somewhere he had heard that at times the 
youngster had showed a streak of yellow. And it 
was to make him “lay down” that he had exerted 
himself to the utmost in the rushes. But the kid 
showed no signs of “laying down,” and a dull rage 
burned in Larrigan’s heart as he realized that the 
rushes were costing him dear. 

At the beginning of the fifth, Larrigan forbore to 
rush. Toe to toe, they indulged in a bit of sparring 
in which each landed harmless blows. Leonard, on 
his guard for the rush that did not come, suddenly 
realized that Larrigan was stalling for wind. Re¬ 
doubling his effort he forced Bull to the ropes, seek¬ 
ing in vain for an opening that would enable him 
to deliver a smashing blow to the jaw, or the heart. 
He tried for a long left to the jaw, his foot slipped, 
and the next instant his head rocked and he felt 
himself falling from a great height. A moment 
later he realized that he was lying upon his back, 
and that his gloved hands were clutching at the 
mat in a vain effort to keep from being whirled into 
space. Above him the hand of the referee was 
rising, falling. His ears caught words—three—four 
—five— He recovered his senses with a rush. He, 
Thunderbolt Leonard, was on the mat, and the 
referee was counting him out! He turned on his 


Thunderbolt Leonard 


17 


side and rose to his hands and knees—seven—eight 
— He was upon his feet, his guard up, and Lar- 
rigan with redoubled ferocity was rushing him to 
the ropes. The gong sounded before he could clinch, 
and as he sank onto his stool, he could hear the 
wild shouting of the crowd. The clammy cold of 
the wet ropes felt good as he stretched his arms 
along them and lay back while Casey fanned him 
with the towel. “Look out for him, on de start, 
dis round, kid—he t’inks he’s got youse—git him, 
now anytime. He’s about all in. Watch yer chanct, 
an’ git him!” Casey grinned and winked, as the 
gong sounded, and with the roar of the crowd, he 
met Bull Larrigan’s frantic rush. Good old Casey! 
The only man in the house who believed in him. 
He’d show ’em! Feinting a sidestep, Thunderbolt 
drove a terrific left to the undershot jaw. The blow 
went high, landing squarely on the nose with a force 
that rocked the mighty Bull to his shoe soles. The 
rush stopped in a rapid exchange of close in-fighting, 
Larrigan blowing the blood that ran into his mouth 
from his flattened nose, so that it spattered and 
spotted the arms and chest of Thunderbolt with 
crimson. The crowd went wild. The air was filled 
with a mighty roar of voices in which the name of 
Thunderbolt divided honors with the name of Lar¬ 
rigan. For the youngster was fighting, now—fight- 


i8 


Without Gloves 


ing as he had never fought in his life. He could 
see what the crowd could not see, the peculiar glassy 
look in the eyes of Bull, that is the look of a beaten 
man. He knew also that Larrigan was slowing up. 
A swing of his own missed its mark, and Larrigan’s 
right crashed against his jaw. He knew that Lar¬ 
rigan had put everything he had into that blow, and 
the blow had failed even to jar. A moment later 
Larrigan’s glove, catching fairly the blow it was to 
block, was driven back into his own face—he 
couldn’t even guard! A punch to the stomach stag¬ 
gered Bull. His arms momentarily dropped, and in 
that moment a long left to the jaw followed a right 
to the heart, and Larrigan, his arms fanning the air 
like flails, his mouth open, and the lower half of his 
face showing in the glare of the light like a gro¬ 
tesque crimson mask, staggered backward against 
the ropes. Wildly the man clutched the rope with 
one arm, as he sought to force a clinch with the 
other. Leonard easily avoided the clinch, carefully 
measured his distance, and landed on the point of 
the jaw, and Bull Larrigan, sagging down the ropes, 
went peacefully to sleep upon the floor, while above 
him the arm of the referee slowly rose and fell for 
the tenth time. 

As Thunderbolt crossed to the corner he heard 
his own name roared from a thousand throats, as 


Thunderbolt Leonard 


19 


the crowd milled and swarmed about the ringside 
and the exits- For crowds are ever fickle. An 
old hero had fallen, and the East Side had a new 
darling. 


CHAPTER II 

ALL SET 

Toward the middle of the afternoon of the day 
following the fight, Dreyfus entered the door of the 
Eureka Social Club’s gymnasium and was greeted 
by Red Casey: “Hello, Bill! How’s every little t’ing 
goin’ wid youse?” 

“All right, I guess,” Dreyfus ran an appraising 
eye about the room. “Nice place you’ve got here, 
Red.” 

“Well, it ain’t so bad. ’Course it ain’t no Bon 
Ton, nor nuttin’ like dat. But, we manage to pay 
de rent, an’ a few salaries, an’ now an’ den we got 
enough left over fer to put in a little new ’quip- 
ment.” 

“What we take in over to the Bon Ton ain’t what 
you’d call all velvet,” answered Dreyfus, dryly. 

Red Casey grinned knowingly, “No, I s’pose Lefty 
Klingermann tends to dat.” 

Dreyfus nodded: “Um-hum, an’ it’s Lefty I 
come over to see you about.” 


20 


All Set 


21 


“Lefty! Wot in de devil have I got to do wid 
Lefty Klingermann? He ain’t got no strings on dis 
dump. You tell Lefty I says w’en we git ready to 
move de Eureka Club over to Union Market precinct, 
I’ll come an’ see him.” 

Dreyfus grinned: “I’ll say you’d go an’ see him, 
or he’d go an’ see you—every once in so often—an’ 
sometimes twice. But, it ain’t that—it’s about 
Thunderbolt Leonard.” 

“T’underbolt! Wot about T’underbolt?” 

“Lefty’s took a notion he wants to manage him.” 

Red Casey stared incredulously at the speaker: 
“Manage T’underbolt!” he cried. “Yer crazy wid 
de heat! Wot in blue hell would dat grafter do 
wid a pug? Wot’s his game? Talk to me, Bill. 
Put me wise.” 

“That’s all I know. I’d kind of figured I’d like 
to take holt of him myself, if he showed anything 
last night. But Lefty come in after the bout was 
over an’ said he was goin’ to manage him, himself.” 

The wrath of Red Casey flared high: “Youse 
go back an’ tell dat big fat slob of a Kike dat I 
says to hell wid him!” Red stepped closer and 
lowered his voice: “Le’me give youse a tip, Bill. 
Dis here kid’s a comer. But, he’s got to be handled 
right. He’s raw as a chunk of liver—but he’s got 
de goods. Wid youse managin’ him, an’ me trainin’ 


22 


Without Gloves 


him, we’d put him to de top. I ain’t t’rowin’ de 
bull. Dat’s straight goods. Youse go back an’ 
tell Lefty to go chase hisself an’ if he kes it too 
hot fer youse over dere, quit yer job an’ come over 
here. You an’ me, we kin put de kid clean to de 
top. An’ w’en we do, de jobs we got now’ll look 
like t’irty cents, Mex.” 

Dreyfus shook his head: “I’d like to do that the 
best in the world. But you don’t know Lefty Klin- 
germann like I know him. We wouldn’t stand no 
show. He’d queer our game one way an’ another. 
An’ that ain’t all. When he gits it in for a man 
there ain’t no place he can go an’ be safe. Remember 
Coxy Wesson?” 

“De guy dat use’d to run de stuss joint on Riv- 
ington street?” 

“That’s him. Well, he tried to double-cross Lefty 
a while back. The bulls cle£ ’ his dump out, but 
Coxy made a getaway. Well, last Thursday Coxy 
got bumped off—in Denver. An’ Sunday a couple 
of gunmen sneaked ^ack into town. That’s Lefty.” 

Red Casey’s brow wrinkled: “Does he know youse 
come over here today?” 

Dreyfus nodded. 

“Well, den dey ain’t no use talkin’ about me an’ 
de kid slippin’ out to New Orleans or ’Frisco, ’cause 
dat’d leave youse here, an’ he’d know youse double- 


All Set 


23 


crossed him, an’ it wouldn’t do no good fer youse 
to go along, ’cause if he got Coxy, he’d git youse. 
Looks like we got to play de game wid his chips. I 
don’t like it ” 

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” said Dreyfus. 
“Lefty’s got plenty of jack. An’ he seems hell-bent 
on bringin’ out a champ. There’s one thing about 
Lefty, when he gets a notion in his head he’ll ride it, 
no matter what it costs. I don’t think he wants to 
break into the game for what money’s in it. He’s 
got some other reason. We might do worse than 
set in the game with him.” 

Casey made a wry grimace: “Might’s well claim 
we kin, seem’ dere ain’t no udder way. But how do 
youse figger us bot’ in on de jack? Youse is a 
trainer, an’ so am I. Lefty he ain’t goin’ to hire 
two trainers, is he?” 

Dreyfus grinned. “No, Red, you can do the 
training. Don’t worp, bout me. I’ll get mine. The 
Bon Ton is going to be the training quarters for the 
new champ, an’ most of his fights will be fought 
there. Then Lefty promised to ease up about fifty 
per cent on—collections.” 

A form darkened the door, and Casey motioned 
him to join them. “Here’s T’underbolt, now,” he 
whispered, “We’ll see what he says.” 

Thunderbolt nodded to Dreyfus, and greeted 


24 


Without Gloves 


Casey with a grin: “Framin' up another match?” 
he asked, “Bring 'em on. I need the jack.” 

“No, we ain’t dopin’ out no match,” explained 
Red, “We’re dopin’ out a manager. We got a pro¬ 
position. Say, kid, do youse know who wants to 
manage youse? Well not no one but Lefty Klinger- 
mann, hisself!” 

“Who’s Lefty Klingermann ?” 

“Dey ain’t no one on de East Side couldn’t tell 
youse who Lefty is. He’s de devil, an’ president, 
an’ congress, an’ de fire department, an’ de police, 
an’ de mayor all rolled in one bundle an’ stuffed 
inside a silk shirt. He’s de guy dat lets de wheels 
go ’round on de East Side. He’s de King of Union 
Market. An’ he wants to manage youse. He set 
at de ringside las’ night, an’ today he sends Dreyfus 
over to git youse.” 

An avaricious gleam flashed in the young man’s 
eyes: “What’s in it?” he asked, tersely. 

Dreyfus answered: “He didn’t mention no terms. 
He wants you should come over to the Bon Ton 
tonight, an’ talk it over. There’ll only be him an’ 
me an’ you, an’ Red. Nine o’clock, in my office.” 

Thunderbolt turned to Red: “How about it?” he 
asked. 

Casey squared his shoulders and looked up into 
the prize fighter’s face. “Dey ain’t no use beatin’ 


All Set 


25 


de devil around de stump,” he said. “It’s like dis: 
If youse is out fer de jack, an’ lookin’ fer de easiest 
way to git it, I’d say sign up wid Klingermann. 
Dey ain’t no one goin’ to buck him. Chances is 
youse’ll win all yer fights, an’ pull down a lot of 
jack. But if youse wants to hammer yer way to de 
top, lickin’ de men youse kin lick, an’ gittin’ licked 
by de ones dat kin lick youse, an’ takin’ chances on 
not drawin’ down much jack at first, den keep away 
from Lefty. One way, youse git a long ways up 
wid t’ings all fixed fer youse—an’ maybe he’s big 
enough to put youse clean over. Championships has 
be’n fixed before now.” 

Thunderbolt grinned: “I’ll say I’m out fer the 
jack—an’ I don’t care how I git it. The easier the 
better. What kind of a damn fool would I be to 
throw over a chanct to git to the top easy, an’ make 
plenty of jack doin’ it, to hammer my way to the 
top an’ gittin’ hell hammered out of me, an’ gittin’ 
paid less for it than the other way?” He turned to 
Dreyfus : “Where’s this here Lefty guy? Lead me 
to him!” 

As they followed Thunderbolt out the door Drey¬ 
fus whispered a single word into Red Casey’s ear: 
“Yellow.” 

Casey nodded, and returned the whisper: “Mebbe 
you an’ me’s lucky—an’ de big Kike’s stung!” 


26 


Without Gloves 


Thunderbolt, Casey, and Dreyfus waited in the 
latter’s stuffy office until fifteen minutes past the 
appointed time before Lefty Klingermann, breathing 
heavily from his ascent of the stairs, appeared in 
the doorway, stiff straw hat pushed to the back of 
his head, a cigar protruding at an angle from the 
corner of his mouth. He paused for a moment and 
allowed his glance to travel slowly over the faces 
of the three occupants of the little room. 

“Klingermann, this is Thunderbolt Leonard,” in¬ 
troduced Dreyfus, “Thunderbolt, meet Lefty Klin¬ 
germann.” 

Each acknowledged the introduction with a nod. 
“Seen him in the ring last night,” observed Klinger¬ 
mann, carelessly. “Who’s the other one?” He in¬ 
dicated Casey with a sidewise quirk of the head. 

“That’s Red Casey, one of the best trainers in the 
game.” 

“Casey—Red Casey,” muttered Klingermann, as 
if trying to recall the name. A flicker of interest 
lighted his eyes. “Not the Red Casey that helped 
get old Fitz into shape, an’ then helped put the big 
boiler maker to the top—not that Red Casey!” 

“De hell I ain’t,” challenged the trainer. 

“Glad to know you,” admitted Klingermann, ad¬ 
vancing into the room and offering his pudgy hand. 
“Where you be’n keepin’ yourself?” 


All Set 


27 

“Managin’ a club, same as Dreyfus, here,” 
answered Red. 

Klingermann regarded him shrewdly; “How does 
it come a man that was touted up like you was them 
days has got to manage a dinky club?” he asked 
abruptly. “You don’t look so old to me. Why ain’t 
you still in the camps of the big ones?” 

Casey met the cold-blooded stare of the other with 
a glance, half humorous—half contemptuous: “I 
went into de ring wid old John Barleycorn, an’ he 
knocked me for a gool. Big Jim tied de can to me. 
I ain’t sayin’ he’s right, er he ain’t. I was hittin’ de 
booze pretty hard. Dat was about t’ree mont’s 
before his battle wid de Big Smoke.” 

“I suppose,” sneered Klingermann, “If he hadn’t 
ditched you, we wouldn’t never had no tarbaby 
champ.” 

“I ain’t sayin’ we would, er we wouldn’t,” an¬ 
swered Casey. “All I know is dat when de fight’s 
over, Big Jim’s a has-be’n, an’ Little Arthur’s started 
on his prowl.” 

Klingermann deposited his hat, crown down upon 
the table, and eased himself into a chair. He turned 
abruptly upon Thunderbolt: “So you think you’ll 
make a fighter, do you?” 

“You said you was at the ringside last night.’ 

“Well, don't go gettin’ cocky ’cause you knocked 


28 


Without Gloves 


out poor old Bull Larrigan. He’s jest be’n waitin’ 
fer some kid to come along an’ put him to sleep fer 
about a year. At that, he pretty near got you. 
Whoever’s be’n handlin’ you had ought to slipped 
you the word that your hands an’ feet could be used 
fer somethin’ else besides eatin’ an’ walkin’ with.” 

“Is that so?” cut in Casey. “Youse might of saw 
a lot of fights Lefty, but when it comes to handlin’ 
de fighters, you don’t know no more about it dan 
I do about homin’ graft out of a stuss joint. Two 
weeks ago dat kid was a truck driver. Las’ night 
was his first real fight. He went into it wid only 
two weeks’ trainin’, an’ he was rattled, to boot. If 
you t’ink it’s so easy to build up a fighter, go pick 
you out a truck driver, or any udder kind of a guy 
dat don’t know nuttin’ about de game, an’ I got a 
century dat says you can’t learn him enough in two 
weeks to even hit Larrigan, let alone knock him out. 
Larrigan’s on de toboggan. His punch is gone, but 
he’s dere wit’ de science, an’ you know it.” 

“With the punch the kid’s got, if he had Larri¬ 
gan’s speed an’ Larrigan’s science, he’d be a world 
beater.” 

Casey shook his head: “Larrigan never had de 
speed he showed. His speed was forced. He was 
trained wrong. Look at de bunchy muscles on him. 
He never had no punch. Dis kid here, his muscles 


All Set 


29 


lays so flat an’ smooth youse wouldn’t never know 
he had none, an’ time I’ve woiked wid him six' 
mont’s, if he ain’t got more science dan Larrigan 
showed, I don’t want no pay fer my time.” 

Klingermann eyed the old trainer coldly: “I ain’t 
decided I want to manage this kid, yet,” he said, 
“But, if I do I ain’t goin’ to hire no broken down 
booze h’ister fer a trainer.” 

“Youse has got de right dope, Lefty, an’ dat’s 
w’y I want de job. You see, two years ago I woke 
up one mornin’ an’ called myself jest what you said, 
a broken down booze h’ister, a rum hound, right. 
It made me mad to git called names like dat, an’ I 
knocked old John Barleycorn clean t’rough de ropes. 
He ain’t boddered me since. Youse has follered de 
game long enough to know dat Red Casey knows 
his business. An’ w’at’s more, I know dis kid bet- 
ter’n enyone else knows him. Give me a chanct wit’ 
him?” 

Klingermann’s eyes narrowed: “Do you think he’ll 
make a champ?” he asked after a moment of silence. 

“Dat all depends on how he’s managed, an’ how 
he’s handled. It’s a long road from w’ere he’s at 
to de heavyweight belt. But, I’m tellin’ youse dat 
dere ain’t no one else in sight dat’s got no better 
chanct.” 

Klingermann turned abruptly upon Dreyfus. 


30 Without Gloves 

“What do you think?” he asked, “About him for a 
trainer?” 

“Well,” answered the manager of the Bon Ton, 
“It looks to me like if a man knows enough about 
the game to bring out two champs an’ be half-soused 
all the time, like Red used to be, he had ought to be 
able to bring out another when he's sober all the 
time.” 

“It's goin’ into your contract, then,” snapped 
Klingermann, turning to Red, “One drink, an' you’re 
fired, automatic.” 

“You're on,” answered Casey, and for an hour 
the three principals talked terms and conditions until 
a satisfactory arrangement was reached. 

“All right,” said Klingermann, as he arose to go, 
“I'll have my mouthpiece put it down on paper, an' 
we’ll sign up tomorrow. Meanwhile you two better 
move over into the Avenue Hotel so you’ll be handy 
to your trainin’ quarters here. I'll stop an’ make 
the arrangement when I go down.” 

And so it happened that Thunderbolt Leonard 
came under the management of Lefty Klinger¬ 
mann, and ensconced in a suite of rooms in the pre¬ 
cinct’s “swellest” hotel, became a personage in the 
immediate neighbourhood. 


CHAPTER III 

THE GIRL IN THE DOMINO MASK 

Four weeks later, in the ring of the Bon Ton 
Athletic Club, Thunderbolt knocked out one Ham¬ 
mer Hamlin, of Harlem, who took the count in the 
fourth. The following evening Klingermann, in 
full dress, and in genial mood, invited Thunderbolt, 
Casey, and Dreyfus to dine with him at an expen¬ 
sive up-town hotel. Over cigars and black coffee 
the manager waxed prophetic: “We’re goin’ to put 
you clean to the top, kid. There ain’t nothin’ to it. 
The way you handled your mitts last night didn’t 
look like the same guy that almost let old Bull 
Larrigan smother him in the same ring four weeks 
ago. An’ you was there with the foot work, too. 
That Harlem bird never had a show from the tap 
of the gong. Us four is a combination they can’t 
beat. I guess I didn’t make no mistake when I 
picked out old Red, here, for a trainer. A lot of 
wise guys would said I was a fool. Little Lefty’s 


31 


32 


Without Gloves 


be’n played for a fool before now, but the guys 
that done the playin’ always lit wrong end up at 
the finish. Ain’t that right, Dreyfus?” 

“That’s right,” agreed Dreyfus. “Playin’ you 
for a fool is like playin’ a sellin’ plater to win a 
sweepstakes.” 

“As I says a minute ago, us four is a combination 
they can’t beat. But there’s one thing that’s got to 
be changed.” Three pairs of eyes searched the 
speaker’s face as, with a flourish, he drew a pair of 
tortoise shell rimmed eyeglasses from his pocket 
and affixed them to the bridge of his nose. Pick¬ 
ing up a newspaper which lay folded with the sport¬ 
ing news outermost on the table beside him, he 
leaned forward, and indicated with a pudgy fore¬ 
finger a column headed “In the Squared Circle.” 
“You all seen the papers, so I don’t have to read 
this piece where it tells about our card down to the 
Bon Ton, an’ how the feature of the evenin’ was 
you knockin’ out Hammer Hamlin, an’ how it says 
it’s understood you is under the management of 
Lefty Klingermann, the well-known East Side poli¬ 
tician. But, that ain’t what I’m gittin’ .at. It goes 
on down an’ gives the fights at other clubs. Here’s 
where Knockout Brady wins over Kid Johnson, an’ 
Sailor Hall gets a decision over Tiger Keller, an’ 
so on down the line. They wasn’t none of ’em big 


The Girl in the Domino Mask 33 

fights, an’ most of the pugs is guys that ain’t known 
out of their own precinct. An’ all of ’em fightin’ 
under some big soundin’ monaker. It’s Thunder¬ 
bolt, an’ Hammer, an’ Sailor, an’ Knockout, an 
Kid, an’ Tiger, an’ Bull. That’s all right as long 
as these guys are fightin’ around in clubs, but it 
don’t go with the top notchers. Think back over 
the big boys that’s be’n champs. Jake Kilrain, John 
L. Sullivan, Jim Corbett, Bob Fitzsimmons, Jim 
Jefferies, Jack Johnson—every one of ’em fightin’ 
under a regular honest to God front name. It’s 
only the little guys that don’t never git nowheres 
that fights under them nicknames. What we’re 
goin’ to do is can this ‘Thunderbolt’ stuff. What’s 
your regular name?” 

“Shirly Leonard.” 

“Shirly!” cried Klingermann in dismay, “that’s 
a hell of a name fer a pug! Ain’t you got no other 
one?” 

“No, that’s all,” grinned the other. “That’s why 
Casey changed it to Thunderbolt.” 

“Well, Shirly ain’t no fightin’ name, an’ Leonard 
ain’t none too good. While we’re changin’, we 
might’s well make a job of it. You can’t fight under 
that name no more than what Kid McCoy could of 
fought under the name of Norman Shelby. We’ve 
got to dope out a new name.” 


34 


Without Gloves 


“My mother’s name was Duffy,” ventured Leon¬ 
ard, “an’ her old man’s name was Mike.” 

“There you are! Mike Duffy! There’s a name 
with a punch! Shirly Leonard couldn’t never be no 
champ, but Mike Duffy’s goin’ to be. An’ now 
that’s settled, how about me tryin’ to git a match 
with Knockout Brady for next month?” 

The fight with Brady was arranged. With the 
introductions came the announcement from the ring 
that hereafter Thunderbolt Leonard would fight 
under the name of Mike Duffy. The announce¬ 
ment was met by applause for the youngster had 
already become a favourite with the Bon Ton fans. 
Whereupon, in a spectacular exhibition, during 
which each contestant fought furiously until the end 
of the eighth round when Brady suddenly collapsed 
on the ropes, the youngster vindicated the interest 
of his following. 

During the next eight months Duffy added seven 
victories to his record and thus became the man 
most to be reckoned with among the local heavies. 
Sporting writers took him up. His photographs in 
ring costume showing his well-known “fighting 
face” appeared in Sunday sport gossip sheets, and 
letters began to pour in upon Klingermann offering 
matches with pugs of more than local fame. 

By this time Mike Duffy had become the social 


The Girl in the Domino Mask 35 

lion of Union Market precinct. His popularity as 
a fistic star, together with the fact that he was a 
protege of Lefty Klingermann gave him a standing 
in the community enjoyed by few others. He pur¬ 
chased raiment commensurate with his position and 
tonsorially blossomed like the rose. At the periodi¬ 
cal social club, and gang dances, Mike Duffy, with 
his pink-necked hair-cut, and his highly polished 
finger nails, was the envied recipient of the adoring 
glances and flaunted blandishments of the feminine 
underworld. But, to the wiles and the blandish¬ 
ments of the sirens, the erstwhile truck driver gave 
no heed. So that not by virtue of so much as 
honeyed word or look could any moll among them 
claim prestige over any other. Which was a fact 
that gave Lefty Klingermann much secret satisfac¬ 
tion, that he broached one day to Casey. But the 
trainer shook his head: “Dey all falls fer a skirt 
sooner or later, an’ believe me, w’en de kid falls, 
he’ll fall hard.” The worldly wisdom of which 
prophecy was demonstrated toward the tag end of 
the winter when at a masked ball in a little street 
just off the Bowery, Duffy met Lotta Rivoli. From 
the moment the domino mask dropped and he found 
himself staring speechless into the face of the sloe¬ 
eyed Cleopatra from Sullivan Street, Mike Duffy 
was hooked. The eyes that returned his stare held 


36 


Without Gloves 


hint of demure reproach, and the cherry red lips 
suggested a pout: “What’s the matter, you big, 
strong boy, don’t you—like me?” 

“Like you!” Mike Duffy’s voice was husky, and 
he knew that the words were uttered scarce above 
a whisper : “Say, kid—them eyes—an’ lips—are 
they real?” 

The pout became a smile. White teeth gleamed 
between curving red lips, and in the black eyes was 
a glint, deep down: “Oh, yes. They are much real 
—as real as the so strong muscles I could feel in your 
arms as we danced. And I know you, too. In the 
paper I saw it only last week—the picture of you 
in the little trunks, and the fighting gloves on your 
hands. But your face—so cross it looked! You 
must not ever look at Lotta like that. I shall be 
afraid—so terrible. Are you not Mike Duffy, the 
so great fighter?” 

“You’ve got me right, kid—Lotta—that’s a swell 
name. But you ain’t got nothin’ on me. I know 
you, too. Not your name. But, I’ve saw you 
somewheres—an’ talked to you—in dreams.” 

A low gurgle of laughter rippled the white throat, 
and the dark eyes mocked: “It is some one else you 
know. I am not a girl of dreams. I am too—too 
—alive! And in the dark I am afraid.” 

“It’s you, all right! There ain’t no other one. 


The Girl in the Domino Mask 37 

Say, it’s hot in here. We don’t want to dance no 
more. Let’s go.” 

“Go—where?” The dark eyes glowed, and the 
red lips parted alluringly. 

“Anywheres—away from here. I know a place. 
We’ll have a feed—an’ talk.” 

“I, too, am tired of the dance, and hungry. In 
five minutes you shall meet me at the door—down¬ 
stairs.” The next moment she was gone. 

In a daze, Mike Duffy recovered his overcoat 
and hat, and in the cool hallway outside the door, 
he paused under a mantled gas jet and struggled 
into them. In the dimly lighted lower hall the wait 
seemed interminable. Duffy paced up and down, 
pausing at each turn and listened for the sound of 
footsteps upon the bare stairs. “She ain’t cornin’,” 
he muttered, “she was jest kiddin’ me along. Maybe 
her pardner got next—damn him! I’ll kill him!” 
With fists clenched inside his overcoat pockets, he 
began the ascent of the stairs. A low laugh rippled 
from the gloom above, and a rich low pitched voice 
sounded close in his ear: 

“So fierce! I am afraid. And who is it you 
shall kill!” 

The girl of the domino mask was beside him 
upon the stairs, and grasping her almost roughly by 
the arm, he hurried her down the few remaining 


Without Gloves 


38 

steps and out onto the street. “Do not hold my 
arm so tight, you are hurting me, M she said. “And, 
you have not told me, who is it you would kill?” 

Duffy smiled rather sheepishly, as he released her 
arm. “I—I thought some guy had stopped you 
from cornin’ downstairs—the guy you come with, 
or—” he ceased speaking abruptly, and peered 
searchingly into her face: “Say, kid, who did you 
come to the dance with? You ain’t—married?” 

The low, throaty laughter held a tantalizing note, 
and the dark eyes mocked: “Why do you care ? 
Sometimes one marries too young. One does not 
know. And sometimes one puts it off too long. 
That which has passed, is gone. And that which is 
to come, we do not know. It is only now we live. 
So, why do you care ?” 

The bitter March wind, whipping around the 
corner struck the two muffled figures and held them 
in their tracks as they attempted to turn east on 
Houston Street. Instantly Duffy’s arm was about 
the girl’s waist, and he drew her back into the 
shelter of the building. For an instant he held her 
close while his breath came fast. With her muffed 
hand against his breast, she drew away. Even as 
he released her he caught a look of wondrous soft¬ 
ness in the depths of the dark eyes—and the red 
lips smiled. 


The Girl in the Domino Mask 39 

A row of taxis, their hoods swathed in robes, 
stood along the opposite curb in anticipation of 
patronage from the dance. The drivers muffled to 
the ears in huge coat collars, stood humped in the 
lee of their cars, or stamped up and down upon 
the sidewalk. At a shrill whistle from Duffy, the 
robes disappeared from a hood, and with the roar 
of a motor, a cab detached itself from the line, and 
swung to the curb before the two waiting figures. 
Handing the girl inside, Duffy gave the driver a 
number, and the next moment was seated beside 
her upon the cushions. She had settled herself info 
the corner, with head thrown back and eyes closed, 1 ' 
and, despite her rich dark complexion, her face 
looked almost marble white in the dim light of the 
street lamps. A white hand lay ungloved upon the 
seat beside him, and as he took the hand, soft warm 
fingers closed about his own. It seemed to Duffy 
as though the girl must certainly hear the wild 
pounding of his heart. He spoke aloud, as though 
no interval had elapsed since her last words, and in 
his own ears his voice sounded strangely gruff: 
“I don’t care! I don’t care—a damn!” His lips 
were upon hers, his arms were about her and as he 
drew her close, and closer, he could feel the rapid 
rise and fall of her bosom. In a surge of trembling 
passion he rained hot kisses upon her lips, her 


40 


Without Gloves 


cheeks, her eyes, and upon the full rounded throat 
that rose columnlike from the deep fur of her collar. 

The taxi swerved sharply into Avenue A, and 
a few moments later drew up in front of a glaringly 
lighted cafe, a few doors below the Avenue Hotel. 
The door opened and Duffy was assisting the girl 
to alight. Slipping a dollar bill into the driver’s 
hand, he followed her across the sidewalk. At the 
door of the cafe the girl turned abruptly and hur¬ 
riedly recrossing the sidewalk, entered the taxi. 
Duffy stared after her in surprise. Then, his 
glance swept the brilliantly lighted interior of the 
building. Midnight diners were grouped here and 
there at small tables. At a table well forward two 
men sat, and as Duffy looked, one of them was 
slowly settling himself into his chair from which 
he had evidently half-risen. The other man’s hand 
rested in evident restraint upon his arm. The eyes 
of both were upon the door through the glass panels 
of which his own face showed bewildered surprise. 
As he turned and followed the girl, a puzzled frown 
wrinkled his forehead. The man who had half- 
risen from his chair was Lefty Klingermann, the 
other was Red Casey. 

By the time he reached the door of the taxi, the 
girl had completely recovered her poise, if indeed 
she had ever lost it. 


The Girl in the Domino Mask 41 

“What’s the matter, kid?” asked Duffy, thrusting 
his head into the interior. 

The girl laughed: “Oh, it is nothing. Only I do 
not like that place. A long time ago—more than 
a year—I one night sat at a table and there was 
a fight, and I saw a man stabbed, so that he fell 
down dead on the floor. I rushed out from there 
screaming, with many others, and I have never been 
in there since. I could not go in there and eat. Al¬ 
ways I would see that man lying dead on the floor, 
and the red blood upon the tiling.” 

“I heard about it,” answered Duffy, “some Dago 
row, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes, the man who was killed was a—Dago.” 

“But, why didn’t you tell me before, an’ 
I’d of took you somewheres else. I eat here 
regular. It’s a swell dump, an’ they feed you 
good.” 

“I didn’t know where we were till I got to the 
door.” She paused and the smouldering dark eyes 
were fixed half-timidly upon his face. “I was 
thinking about—something else.” 

Duffy was beside her upon the seat. “Where’ll 
we go?” he asked, “anywhere’s you say.” 

“I know a place—up town. Let’s go there. It is 
quiet, and I can forget this so horrible place.” She 
gave him a number which he repeated to the driver. 


42 


Without Gloves 


The door closed, and the car drew smoothly away 
from the curb. 

In a little chop house, far from Avenue A, 
the two sat long over black coffee at the conclusion 
of their meal. For the most part, the man talked 
and the girl listened, now and then interrupting 
with a question or a suggestion that drew out the 
greater share of his life’s history, and more par¬ 
ticularly his record in the ring. More than once 
she surprised him with some pertinent remark upon 
matters pugilistic, which betrayed a thorough and 
deep-rooted knowledge of the inside working of the 
game. 

“I don’t get you kid!” he exclaimed suddenly, 
in reply to a suggestion that his trainer pay some 
attention to developing his left along other lines 
than an upper-cut. “How do you know I ain’t 
got nothin’ in my left but that upper-cut? How 
do you know I could of floored Brady sooner by 
keepin’ him away, an’ forcin’ him to fight long 
range? Where do you get this dope, anyhow? 
Who are you? You ain’t even told me yer name, 
except Lotta!” 

Laughter rippled from the girl’s curved lips. “It 
is because I like to read about the fights, and about 
the fighters. It is not only the men who read about 
such things. I know about many fighters—why 


The Girl in the Domino Mask 43 

some are strong, and why others are weak. If they 
would let women in, I would go and see them all.” 

“But, you ain’t told me yer name. An’ where do 
you live?” 

“My name is Lotta Rivoli. And now we shall 
finish the coffee, and you shall take me home.” 

“What’s yer grift, kid?” asked Duffy abruptly, 
a few minutes later as the taxi he had summoned 
skirted the park. 

“Grift?” The dark eyes looked puzzled for a 
moment, and lighted in a swift smile. “Oh, yes, I 
know. You mean how do I earn my living. I am an 
—an artist.” The car turned into Eighty-fourth 
Street, and a few moments later drew up to the 
curb before a modest apartment house. “Come, 
and you shall see how an artist lives,” she invited 
in a low voice, as the driver fumbled at the catch 
of the door. “Maybe we could even find some wine 
—light wine, that will not go to your head.” 

Upon the steps of the house Duffy turned at 
the question of the driver: “Shall I wait?” 

The girl forestalled his answer: “No, do not wait.” 
And the next moment, with wildly pounding heart, 
Duffy found himself following her up the stairs. 


CHAPTER IV 

A VISIT TO TRENTON 

At a conference in the brilliantly lighted Avenue 
A cafe, that had lasted until midnight, Klinger- 
mann and Red Casey, with numerous offers, chal¬ 
lenges, and defies before them, had been endeavour¬ 
ing to map out a campaign that would place Mike 
Duffy in position to challenge the holder of the 
heavyweight championship. To Klingermann the 
road to glory looked easy, but Red Casey was 
cautious. 

“We’ve got to go slow, Lefty,” he warned, in 
reply to Klingermann’s demand that they accept a 
challenge from Cincinnati, to be followed a month 
later by a bout with a Chicago aspirant 

“What d’you mean—go slow? This here Cincy 
guy ain’t never show’d nothin’ better’n a lot of ’em 
the kid has knocked out, has he? An’ this here 
packin’ house pet from Chicago—he might be a 
little stronger than anything the kid’s tackled, but 


44 


A Visit to Trenton 


45 


by that time he’d ought to be able to handle him. 
What we want is about three good fights leadin’ 
up to Kid Morowitz. An’ then if we can put 
Morowitz on ice we can go after the big fellow.” 

“Yer spacin’ ’em along too fast, Lefty,” cau¬ 
tioned the trainer. “De kid’ll go stale. ’Cordin’ 
to youse we’d ought to take on Morowitz dis cornin’ 
fall.” 

“That’s it.” 

Casey shook his head: “Kid Morowitz ain’t goin’ 
to be no easy bird to handle. Take it from me, 
Lefty, he could right now knock de champ fer a 
gool. I look fer him to hook up wid de champ 
nex’ winter, an’ if we lay off, an’ de champ licks 
him, dat’ll clear de decks for us wit’out fightin’ 
Morowitz, an’ if Morowitz wins de belt, we can 
go after him about a year from nex’ fall.” 

“To hell with a year from next fall!” exclaimed 
Klingermann impatiently. “It’s all right for you 
to string yer job out as long as you can, but how 
about me? It’s little Lefty that’s puttin’ up the 
jack.” 

Casey grinned: “Youse should worry about de 
jack? Dere’s always plenty more w’ere dat come 
from. I wisht I got mine as easy as w’at youse do. 
Take it from me, Lefty, youse better play safe, 
like I says.” 


46 


Without Gloves 


Lefty Klingermann leaned forward impressively, 
and lowered his voice so that the trainer had to 
lean close to listen: “I got a card in the hole that 
you don’t know nothin’ about—an’ believe me, she’s 
an ace. I was over to Philly for a couple of days. 
I didn’t go there for nothin’ else but jest to see 
Jack Keen, Morowitz’s manager. I seen him, an’ 
Morowitz, too. If we can win three fights this 
summer, they’ll take us on in October. An’ Mike 
Duffy wins with a knockout!” 

“W’at’s de price?” asked Casey. 

“Morowitz takes on the St. Paul boy in Aug¬ 
ust. If he wins with a knockout, it’ll cost me more 
than if he don’t. We didn’t talk figures. There’s 
time for that later. Whichever way it goes it’ll 
cost enough. Keen’s out for the jack, all right.” 

“Well,” said Casey, thoughtfully, “you’se know 
yer business better’n w’at I do, but, at dat, I’d 
sooner see de scrap put off fer a year, an’ den 
pulled on de level. I b’lieve Duffy could win.” 

“Can that stuff! What I want is a champ. An’ 
I don’t give a damn how I get him. The quickest 
way’s the best way. When Duffy wins the belt, 
your salary doubles, so the quicker the sooner, for 
you, too—” Klingermann paused abruptly and 
stared at the door where the faces of a man and a 
girl showed through the glass panels. Casey’s eyes 


A Visit to Trenton 


47 


followed his glance, and a moment later the girl 
turned swifty and hurrying across the sidewalk, 
stepped into a waiting taxi. Klingermann half-rose 
from his chair, as the man turned to follow the 
girl, but the hand of Casey restrained him. 

“Did you see who it was?” asked Klingermann, 
a frown wrinkling deeply his fat forehead. 

Casey nodded: “Dago Lottie, an’ de kid.” 

“How’d you know? She ain’t be’n around here 
since you have.” 

“No, I ain’t saw her fer a couple of years. She 
use to be Bull Larrigan’s skirt.” 

“Yes, an’ when Bull hit the toboggan she quit 
him. Do you know where she’s be’n lately?” 

“No.” 

“She’s be’n in Philly. Hooked up with Kid 
Morowitz. Believe me, I was glad when she kissed 
this precinct good-bye. She’s a gold digger, right. 
I’d rather mix it up with the devil himself than 
her. An’ now she’s back!” 

“Youse talk like youse was afraid of her,” 
grinned the trainer. 

“I’ll say I’m afraid of her! The man that ain’t’s 
a fool!” 

“I mus’ be a fool, den. I ain’t never be’n afraid 
of no woman yet. You leave her to me. If she 
gets to buzzin’ around de kid too strong, I’ll slap her 


48 Without Gloves 

face an’ send her home. What’s her game? Put 
me wise.” 

The look that Klingermann bent upon the trainer 
was a blending of pity and scorn. “When you 
feel like slappin’ someone’s face, Red, you’d better 
jest slip around to some of the hangouts and pick 
you out a couple of good live gunmen, an’ try it 
on them. You might get away with that—but not 
Dago Lottie! You want to know what her game 
is, an’ I wish to hell I could tell you. I’ll give you 
a line on what she’s done, an’ maybe we can dope 
out what she’s goin’ to do. Her name is Lottie 
Rivoli, an’ her father runs a fruit store somewheres 
over on Sullivan Street. But there wasn’t no ‘sella 
de banan’ ’ for Lottie. She started in young an’ 
got to be one of the smoothest dips in the business. 
Her specialty was bag openin’, an’ that took her 
into the shoppin’ districts where she soon got to be 
the queen of shoplifters. She was too smart for 
the store dicks, an’ they knew it. So, one by one, 
she made deals with ’em, that is, through them, 
with the management of the store. I’ll bet she’s 
right now on the payroll of twenty big stores in 
this town, an’ probably as many more in Philly, as 
a member of their ‘detective force,’ which means 
that they’re all payin’ her a salary to stay away from 
their stores. A couple of years ago or more she 


A Visit to Trenton 


49 


married Nick Gorno. They lived around the cor¬ 
ner, a couple of squares from here. Nick was a 
clever counterfeiter sometimes, an’ a gunman all 
the time. It wasn’t long till they had trouble, 
an’ one night she framed him, an’ while she was 
sittin’ at the table with him he was bumped off 
right here in this room. After that Lottie throw’d 
in with Bull Larrigan. It seems she’s nuts on pugs, 
an’ when Bull begun to skid, she quit him an’ took 
up with Kid Morowitz. When Jack Keen got holt 
of Kid an’ took him over to Philly, she went along, 
an’ believe me, there was plenty of us not over a 
thousand miles from here that was good an’ damn’ 
glad to see her go. I tried to make her kick in 
onct, same as the rest was doin’. Before we got 
through with her it cost me money, an’ the Captain, 
too—an’ Dago Lottie had the jack! Things was 
lookin’ pretty good till she showed up tonight with 
Duffy—but she’s too swift for me!” 

A slow grin overspread the face of the trainer. 
Klingermann frowned: “I don’t see nothin’ funny 
about it. You’ll be laughin’ out of the other side 
of yer mouth, time you know her as good as I do.” 

“She’s a peacherino,” muttered Casey. “If a guy 
was to fall fer her, he’d be apt to fight like hell to 
hold her, wouldn’t he?” 

“What d’you mean?” 


50 


Without Gloves 


“I mean, these here gold diggers is like rats. 
An’ you know de sayin’ about de rats leavin' a 
sinkin’ ship. She quit Bull Larrigan when he hit 
de toboggan—an' now if she’s quit Morowitz, 
w’at’s de answer?” 

“You don’t mean Morowitz is—through!” 

“I ain’t sayin’ he is, or he ain’t. He fights a 
week from tonight over to Trenton. I guess I’H 
jest slip over dere an’ look him over. ’Cause if 
he’s slowin’ up, de quicker we git to him de better. 
’Fore someone else beats us to it.” 

Klingermann nodded: “That’s right. We’ll take 
on these other guys an’ put ’em away one after 
another, an’ take Kid Morowitz on in the fall. If 
Dago Lottie has quit him, an’ figgers on throwin’ 
in with Duffy, she might slip us some good inside 
stuff on the Kid. That would make it cheaper when 
we come to deal. She’d do anything to hook up 
with a champ. But, believe me, it’s dangerous busi¬ 
ness, tryin’ to make use of Dago Lottie.” 

“Not w’en we bot’ got our money on de same 
card. If she’s smooth as you say, she damn well 
knows she’s got to t’row in wit’ us.” 

“Yes, an’ double-cross us without battin’ an eye, 
if she seen where she could make by it—same as 
she’s prob’ly double-crossin’ Kid Morowitz right 
now. I wisht she’d stayed out of it, but seein’ she 


A Visit to Trenton 


51 

didn’t, we got to make the best of it. Good-night. 
See you tomorrow.” 

For a week after the night of the masked ball, 
Mike Duffy haunted the flat on Eighty-fourth 
Street, but all to no purpose. He called in the 
evening, and in the afternoon, and once even in the 
morning, but the door never opened to his ring, 
and in desperation he tried to bribe the janitor’s 
wife to let him into the apartment with a pass key. 
She flatly refused, and the only information he 
could get out of her was that the lady who leased 
the apartment was a “Cubian,” or “Spanish lady,” 
who was hardly ever there. 

His work that week was perfunctorily performed, 
and Casey noted that the youngster was morose and 
irritable. Whereupon, he invited Duffy to accom¬ 
pany him to Trenton to see the mill between Kid 
Morowitz and the ’Frisco Wonder. 

At the ringside Duffy watched every move as the 
contestants battled on for the full ten rounds. For 
he knew that the time was coming when he would 
have to fight the Philadelphia boy, and secretly, he 
feared him. In vain he sought for manifestation 
of the much-talked-of ring generalship of the near 
champ, and for the terrific surprise punch that had 
put many an adversary to sleep before bedtime. 
What he saw was an exceptionally good exhibition 


5 2 


Without Gloves 


of boxing which lasted the full ten rounds, during 
every one of which Kid Morowitz had undoubtedly 
the best of it. Duffy saw the much touted fighter 
pass up two chances, and fail in half a dozen at¬ 
tempts at a knockout, and also, he saw him rocked 
to his heels by a right to the jaw in the eighth. 

“How’d he look to youse, kid?” asked Casey as 
the two waited at the ringside for the crowd to thin 
in the aisles. “If youse had be’n in de ring wid 
him tonight dey’d of carried him out. If de 
’Frisco Wonder had followed up we’n he had him 
goin’ in de eight’, he’d of got him.” 

“Maybe Morowitz wasn’t showin’ all he had,” 
replied Duffy, doubtfully. Then, vanity over-shad¬ 
owing for a moment the yellow streak the old 
trainer knew was there, he added: “But yer right, 
Red, if I’d of be’n in the ring in the eighth, I’d of 
et him up.” 

Casey nodded emphatically: “Sure youse would. 
I guess Lefty’s right. Kid Morowitz is about done. 
It’s up to youse to git him. An’ de quicker we git 
him, de better. It’ll mean plenty work dis sum¬ 
mer. Lefty’s got t’ree fights lined up, an’ w’en we 
got dem on ice, Morowitz has got to talk to us.” 

Duffy grinned, knowingly: “Leave it to Lefty,” 
he whispered, “he told me about his trip to Philly.” 

“Look a-here, kid,” replied the trainer, “by de 


A Visit to Trenton 


53 

time fall comes you won’t need no frame-up to 
knock Morowitz fer a gool.” 

“Where in hell do you get that stuff?” retorted 
Duffy. “What kind of a fool d’you think I am, 
to go into the ring against Morowitz an’ take a 
chance, when the fight can be put on ice before she 
starts! Let Lefty spend some of his money. He 
gets it easy. Believe me, it’s the man with the 
graft that draws down the jack. Hard work don’t 
get no one nowheres. Look at Lefty, he never 
done a tap in his life, an’ he rolls up more jack 
every week than I ever seen.” They were on the 
sidewalk, now, before the door of the hall in which 
the fight had been staged. A big limousine stood 
at the curb a short distance away, the liveried chauf¬ 
feur standing beside its closed door. As the two 
drew opposite the car, a lane opened in the passing 
crowd, and Kid Morowitz closely followed by Jack 
Keen hurried across the sidewalk. The chauffeur 
held the door open and by the light of a street lamp 
both Duffy and Casey saw distinctly in the gloomy 
interior of the car the face of a beautiful woman. 
It was only a momentary glimpse, then the door 
closed, the crowd surged about the vehicle, which 
the next moment glided slowly away. 

Casey glanced at his companion who stood rooted 
to the sidewalk, his face showing marble white in 


54 


Without Gloves 


the glare of the arc lamp. Suddenly, with a half- 
articulate exclamation, Duffy sprang forward, heed¬ 
less of the imprecations of the men who were 
jammed together in the crowd. “Stop that car!” 
he cried hoarsely. Someone laughed. Amid jeers 
and jibes Casey managed to get hold of his arm 
and bring him to a standstill just as a big police¬ 
man shouldered his way to the spot to ascertain 
the cause of the commotion. Evidently no one in 
the crowd felt himself sufficiently aggrieved to make 
a complaint, and with a word of advice as to future 
conduct the officer passed on, leaving Duffy and 
Casey to worm their way to the edge of the crowd 
and cross to the opposite side of the street. 

“What was she doin’ in that machine? Where 
is he takin’ her?” cried Duffy as he stared down 
the street into which the car had disappeared. 

“Back to Philly, of course,” grinned Casey. 
“Why?” 

“Why!” cried the young man, excitedly. “Good 
God, man, that’s Lotta! She’s mine—my girl! 
We’re goin’ to be married ! She don’t live in Philly! 
She lives in New York. She’s an artist—an’ she 
ain’t be’n home for a week! Where’s the station? 
It’s me for Philly!” 

“An’ w’at’ll youse do w’en youse git dere ?” 
grinned Casey. 


A Visit to Trenton 


55 


‘TU hunt up Kid Morowitz, an’ I’ll—I’ll-■” 

“Yeh, an’ dat’s as far as youse would git. Make 
a damn fool of yourself, an’ maybe git pinched. 
Take it from me, kid, youse don’t need to chase 
dat skirt over to Philly. All youse got to do is go 
back to little old Noo York, an’ sit tight, an’ Dago 
Lottie’ll be chasin’ youse up inside a week.” 

“Dago Lottie! What do you mean? Who in 
hell you talkin’ about?” 

Casey glanced at his watch, and hailed a passing 
taxi: “We got five minutes to get de train fer 
home,” he answered. “Wait till we git on de cars, 
an’ I’ll tell youse.” 

As the train pulled out of the station, Duffy said 
surlily, “Well, spit it out. What was you goin’ to 
spring on me?” 

“In de firs’ place,” began the trainer, as if care¬ 
fully weighing his words, “dis here moll was mar¬ 
ried to a Dago gunman, an’ w’en she got tired of 
him, she framed him, an’ had him bumped off in 
de Elite Cafe, an’ her settin’ by an’ lookin’ on. 
Leastwise, dat’s wat dey claim-” 

“It’s a damned lie!” hissed Duffy. “She told 
me, herself, about sittin’ there one night an’ seein’ 
some Dago guy croaked. It busted her all up. She 
ain’t never be’n in there since. An’ why in hell 
did you call her Dago Lottie?” 




56 


Without Gloves 


Casey grinned: “All right. I didn’t figger youse 
would believe it. An’ Dago Lottie—dat’s de mon- 
aker she goes by. Take it from me, kid. Dis here 
Morowitz ain’t the first pug she’s hooked on to— 
an’ youse won’t be de last.” 

Duffy interrupted with a sneering laugh: 
“Where’d you get that—suck it out of a pipe? 
She never know’d a pug till she know’d me. She 
lives on Eighty-fourth Street. I’ve be’n to her flat 
—I guess I know. She’s an artist.” 

“I’ll say she is!” agreed Casey. “But tell me, 
kid. You know her so damn well—ain’t she pretty 
well posted on de fight game?” 

Duffy hesitated, frowning, as he recollected his 
own surprise at her intimate knowledge of matters 
pertaining to his profession. Then he remembered 
her own explanation. “What if she does?” he 
growled, “she likes to read the dope in the papers.” 

“Sure, an’ w’at she couldn’t find in de papers 
Kid Morowitz could tell her. She’s be’n livin’ wit’ 
him fer a year. An’, now we got started, we 
might’s well go de whole road, she’s de smoothest 
dip, an’ bag opener, an’ shoplifter in de game.” 

Duffy leaned closer, his fingers gripping the arm 
of the trainer: “Someone’s be’n stringin’ you with 
a pack of lies,” he said, in a low, tense voice. “But, 
even if it was all true, it wouldn’t make no differ- 


A Visit to Trenton 


57 


ence to me.” A note of defiance crept into his 
^ voice: “Everyone else is crooked, why shouldn’t 
she be?” 

“You got de wrong slant, kid,” replied the old 
trainer, soothingly. “It’s only de tin horns dat’s 
crooks-” 

“Tin horns!” sneered the youngster, “Lefty 
Klingermann, an’ the Captain, an’ them higher up 
is all grafters. An’ look at damn near every one 
you know! Who’s got the jack? It’s the con men, 
an’ the gams, an’ them that uses their head. Show 
me any one that ain’t a crook-” 

“I ain’t,” interrupted Casey, emphatically. 

“Yes, an’ what you got to show? Nothin’ but 
a job with a lot of work, an’ damn little pay! 
You’ve told me yerself how much you be’n offered, 
back when you was workin’ with the big ones, to 
sell out. If you’d of done it, you’d of had enough 
jack so’s you wouldn’t be workin’ now.” 

Casey shook his head: “No. Dat kind of jack 
don’t never stick to a man. Look all around you. 
Dey ain’t nowheres I guess dat’s got more crooks 
livin’ in it den Union Market precinct, an’ how 
many of ’em’s got anyt’ing to show fer it?” 

“They would have if they didn’t shove it all over 
the stuss tables! You can’t tell me nothin’. I got 
eyes. I can see who’s got the jack an’ who ain’t.” 




5« 


Without Gloves 


He paused for a minute and broke out, petulantly: 
“What in hell did I listen to you for, anyhow? 
I’d ought to be in Philly right now—an’ it’s your 
fault I ain’t! If you think she’s be’n livin’ with 
Kid Morowitz fer a year, what made you say she’d 
be huntin’ me up inside a week? Tell me that!” 

“Sure I’ll tell youse. I’m playin’ her to run true 
to form. Her huntin’ youse up in de foist place 
showed she know’d what we didn’t know—dat Kid 
Morowitz was reachin’ dost to de end of his string. 
She was huntin’ fer a place to light w’en de Kid 
dropped, an’ she picked youse. After what we seen 
tonight we know she’s right. Morowitz should of 
knocked dat guy cold, but he couldn’t. She’ll hunt 
youse up, all right—but she won’t break wit’ de 
Kid—not till youse two come togedder. Her 
game’ll be to string youse bot’ along, kind of layin’ 
low to see w’ich way de cat jumps—an’, take it 
from me, kid, she’ll jump wit’ de cat—an’ light 
right side up!” Duffy relapsed into a moody silence, 
his sullen gaze fixed upon the outer darkness where 
now and then a tiny light flashed past. Newark 
was reached before Casey spoke again: “If yer still 
want her, kid, de best bet fer youse is to woik up 
to w’ere youse kin knock Kid Morowitz cold, w’en 
youse get in de ring wit’ him dis fall.” 

Duffy’s lip curled in a sneer: “Is that so? I’ll 


A Visit to Trenton 


59 

have her all right. But, you talk like you’d fergot 
Lefty’s trip to Philly.” 

Casey grinned: “S’pose Morowitz was to find 
out she was playin’ up to youse? Would he deal 
wit’ Lefty, den? Nix! He’d go into de ring to 
git youse—an’ de best man wins!” 

“How in hell’s he goin’ to find out?” asked Duffy, 
querulously. “She ain’t goin’ to tell him—an’ I 
ain’t. Seein’ I’m in the game, I’ll play it a little 
smooth, myself. But, damned if I’m fool enough 
to try to knockout Kid Morowitz, when I can set 
back an’ have the fight all bought fer me.” 

Casey answered nothing, but a grim little smile 
twisted his thin lips as he followed the younger man 
out of the car. “An’ it’s a new job fer me nex’ 
fall,” he muttered, as he ascended the steps to the 
station, “ ’cause w’en Morowitz gets t’rough wit’ 
youse, youse won’t never fight no more!” 


CHAPTER V 

LOTTA RIVOLI RETURNS 

Shirly Leonard, alias Mike Duffy, erstwhile 
truck driver, now a minor, but rapidly waxing star 
in the constellation of the prize ring, had first looked 
upon the world in a not uncomfortable Brooklyn 
tenement. Of rather drab parentage—his father 
worked in an ice plant, and his mother was just— 
a mother, who functioned to the satisfaction of all 
concerned in the preparation of meals, and the main¬ 
tenance of the home in reasonable comfort. To 
which duties were added certain offices of police, 
judiciary, and executioner in the enforcement of 
certain home-made laws and rules of conduct. 

His early education had been perfunctorily, and 
therefore eminently satisfactorily, attended to both 
at school and at home, so that by the time he had 
reached the estate where a job seemed advisable, he 
fared forth to do battle with the world equipped 
with a strong, clean-muscled body, and a mind whose 


60 


Lotta Rivoli Returns 


61 


code of ethics consisted in the observance or the non- 
observance, of an endless number of disassociated, 
and entirely irrelevant and arbitrary taboos. The 
observance of such taboos constituting RIGHT 
and their non-observance constituting WRONG. 
Right was non-punishable. Wrong was punishable, 
provided the culprit be caught. Some taboos were 
of greater importance than others, as witness the 
degree of punishment prescribed for their non- 
observance. He had learned these taboos, as he had 
learned his multiplication table—by process of repe¬ 
tition, not by process of reasoning. 

Therefore, his education completed, Shirly 
Leonard, the average citizen, sought his job, and 
found it as helper about the ice plant garage. For 
this work he received wages, the greater part of 
which were demanded and paid as remuneration for 
his board and lodging at home. This arrangement 
he accepted without question, not from any sense of 
filial duty, but because all others of his acquaintance 
who were earners paid for their own maintenance, 
either at the homes where they had formerly received 
maintenance free, or elsewhere. And it had never 
occurred to Shirly Leonard to go elsewhere because 
he had become habited to eat and sleep in those 
particular rooms of that particular tenement. 

With each successive raise in wages, came a cor- 


62 


Without Gloves 


responding raise in his assessment for board and 
lodging. And this was as it should be, not because 
of any increase in quantity or quality of the board 
and lodging, nor because of any increase in the 
cost of maintaining the habitual standard, but be¬ 
cause it was the habit of those who received more to 
pay more. 

After a year and a half of service for the ice 
company, he quit his job and accepted a more re¬ 
munerative one as driver of a truck. And it was 
while serving in that capacity that he joined, for 
amusement and recreation, the Eureka Social Club, 
Red Casey, Manager, and under the tutelage of the 
able Casey, took up boxing as a pastime, and became 
Thunderbolt Leonard, amateur champion, and later 
Mike Duffy, the pug. 

With the quitting of his job as truck driver to 
enter the professional prize ring, had come a read¬ 
justment of values that the youngster had difficulty 
in assimilating. Casey’s prediction of a hundred 
dollars as compensation for a few minutes in the 
ring—two hundred—a thousand—had been received 
with a skepticism that only the feel of the cash in 
his hands had dispelled. His idea of compensation 
having consisted of a certain fixed sum being paid 
at regular intervals in return for certain hard manual 
labor continuously performed during a certain pre- 


Lotta Rivoli Returns 63 

scribed number of hours in each week. But this was 
“big money”—easily come by! A few hours of 
training each day—a few minutes of fighting in the 
ring—and the big money was paid over, with the 
promise of more! A man was a fool to work. 
What did it get him? Look at John Leonard, his 
father, who after forty years of ceaseless grind at 
jobs that demanded eight, or ten, or twelve hours 
of his time each day, six days in the week, fifty- 
two weeks in the year, was receiving twenty dollars 
a week! So much for the cash—but there were 
other considerations. For instance, his name had 
been printed in the newspapers. Many thousands of 
people whom he had never seen, and who had never 
seen him, had read his name and his deeds in the 
ring. He was a personage, like Christy Mathewson, 
or J. P. Morgan, or Harry Thaw. The thought 
stirred his imagination. This was only the begin¬ 
ning. Soon he would be a topic of conversation in 
street cars and subways. 

“Mattie win his game, today.” 

“Um-hum, an’ I see where Thunderbolt Leonard 
win last night with a knockout.” 

“Yup, an’ old Rosebud win at Latonia.” 

His deeds would be spread before the world, his 
comings and goings recorded, while John Leonard, 
sweating in the boiler room of the ice plant, had 


6 4 


Without Gloves 


never seen his name in print, nor would he ever. 
Nor, would he ever take home more in the weekly- 
pay envelope than would suffice for the needs of 
that week. A man is a fool to work! 

It was at this stage of readjustment that Lefty 
Klingermann assumed the helm of destiny. Young 
Leonard quit the paternal roof to take lodgment in 
the Avenue Hotel without regret. It was not that 
he looked forward to any pleasurable adventure in 
the change, nor did he anticipate better accommo¬ 
dations. His home had been to him a place emi¬ 
nently satisfactory in which to eat and sleep, but now 
the exigencies of his fortune demanded that he re¬ 
move from thence. The exodus was a move of no 
import to himself, nor could it be said to be of any 
more import to his parents. It had been a matter 
of no moment to them when he had quit the ice 
plant to become a truck driver, and neither had it 
been a matter of moment when he forsook the truck 
for the squared circle, nor any matter of moment 
that he should change his place of lodgment. 

Ensconced in the Avenue Hotel, surrounded on 
every hand by men and women who lived in open 
or secret defiance of the taboos that he had been 
taught to observe, his readjustment of values pro¬ 
gressed by leaps and bounds. A policeman, who in 
his humbler and less sophisticated environment, he 


Lotta Rivoli Returns 


65 


had always regarded as one whose duty it was to 
see that taboos were respected, became now a func¬ 
tionary whose office it was to see that the breaker 
of taboos paid for the privilege. Crime was openly 
discussed in the hangouts, as were its perpetrators, 
and future crime planned. Lefty Klingermann was 
the big noise, and “seeing Lefty” was the main 
concern of the powers that prey. 

As protege of the mighty Lefty, his own 
acquaintance and good will was sought, and his 
entree into any resort or hangout in the precinct 
was unquestioned. He early learned that the most 
respected in the community were those who by 
superiority of wit and finesse were fitted to fraud¬ 
ulently obtain large sums of money. For in the 
cosmos of the underworld money speaks louder than 
words, yet in the practice it is the acquisition rather 
than the possession of money that counts. For no 
place in the world is money held more lightly, nor 
spent more wantonly than by those who have risked 
life and liberty in its acquisition. 

The age of twenty-two is an impressionable age, 
a philosophical age, and an age of elastic adapt¬ 
ability. Shirly Leonard’s tentative theory that a 
man was a fool to work, soon crystallized into Mike 
Duffy’s firm conviction that a man was a fool to 
work. His own occupation was gainful beyond any 


66 


Without Gloves 


“job” he could possibly hold down. Furthermore 
it broke no taboo, a fact that had its advantages 
in that his life and liberty were not endangered, 
nor was it necessary for him to “kick in” to the 
police for the privilege of pursuing that occupation. 
Yet his mind rapidly arrived at the point where it 
held nothing of censure, and much of admiration for 
the successful among the powers that prey, and a 
half-cynical contempt for the wage earning observer 
of taboos. This attitude of mind was logical, 
and in no degree reprehensible. New impres¬ 
sions flooding a mediocre brain, had completely sub¬ 
merged the existing impressions of that brain. New 
environment bedazzled, new self importance de¬ 
stroyed perspective, and new acquaintances in¬ 
terested. No actual contact with crime had as yet 
revealed its sordid detail. His impressions were 
only of the romance of crime. 

This, then, was the Mike Duffy who returned 
from the ringside at Trenton, and this was the 
physical and mental equipment with which he must 
meet that which lay before him. 

As Duffy stepped from his hotel early on the 
second evening after his return from Trenton, an 
urchin brushed lightly against him upon the side¬ 
walk, slipped a scrap of paper into his hand, and 
disappeared. A half hour later, with quickened 


Lotta Rivoli Returns 


67 


pulse he pressed the button beside the door of the 
little flat on Eighty-fourth Street. The door opened 
cautiously the length of a short chain, closed, and 
swung wide to disclose a vision of feminine loveli¬ 
ness that struck Duffy speechless, his eyes drinking 
in each detail of the wondrously beautiful figure 
that stood half revealed in the dim light of the tiny 
hallway. Bare shoulders gleamed above the rich 
warm tints of a gown whose short skirt revealed 
far more than they concealed of a pair of daintily 
curved silk-clad legs—a costume whose every fold 
and fabric was designed to exert to the utmost the 
world-old appeal of sex. The red lips of Lotta 
Rivoli smiled, and beneath the loosely piled masses 
of raven hair, the dark eyes invited. Slowly the 
bare arms outstretched and the next instant closed 
about the great shoulders of the man who was press¬ 
ing her to his breast with a grip that threatened to 
crush the life from her body. Their lips met, the 
dark eyes fixed on his, slowly closed and for a long, 
long moment they stood thrilled in each other’s 
embrace. Then, slowly, the dark eyes opened, the 
bared arms dropped from his shoulders, and very 
gently the girl disengaged herself from his embrace, 
and closing the door, led the way into the little 
sitting room, where a single rose-shaded light burned 
low, and blue flames shot fitfully from log to log 


68 


Without Gloves 


of the tiny gas grate. Again the girl turned and faced 
him, her two hands resting lightly upon his shoulders, 
as her eyes glowed up into his: “I have thought of 
you all the time—big boy. I’ve been—needing you.” 

Duffy’s face darkened: “This is the fifth or sixth 
time I’ve be’n here since—that night. Where have 
you be’n?” 

She smiled guilelessly into the lowering eyes: “You 
missed me, then! I am glad! I have been in Balti¬ 
more. My work—it took me there. I had no time 
to let you know.” 

“Baltimore!” cried the man, sharply, “All the 
time? You ain’t be’n nowheres else?” 

“No, no! Foolish one! No place else! But, 
why do you ask?” 

For answer the man’s hands closed roughly upon 
the upraised bare arms, and he pushed her from 
him so violently that she crashed among the pil¬ 
lows of the davenport that was drawn up facing the 
fire. “You lie! Damn you!” The man’s breath 
came fast, and his voice sounded thick with pas¬ 
sion : “It’s either me or Kid Morowitz. An’ you’ve 
got to choose now—tonight!” 

The girl looked little and helpless as she cowered 
among the cushions, with the man standing over 
her glaring down into her half frightened eyes: 
“What—what do-?” 



Lotta Rivoli Returns 


69 


“Don’t try to pull that stuff, kid. You can’t git 
away with it! Didn’t I see you myself—in the big 
car, in Trenton—an’ didn’t I see Kid Morowitz 
git into the car, an’ the car pulled out fer Philly? 
Monday night, it was—the night he fought the 
’Frisco Wonder.” He paused. The girl buried her 
face in the cushions and her shoulders shook with 
sobs, but as she lay huddled upon the davenport 
her brain worked rapidly. If worse came to worst 
she could swing unequivocally to this man who 
glowered above her, but—Morowitz might win! 
For years her dream had been to share the money 
and the fame of a world’s champion. If, when 
these two came together Morowitz should win— 
she must make one desperate effort to save the 
situation as it was. He was speaking again: “I’ve 
learnt a lot in the last year. I’ve learnt a man can’t 
make no jack by workin’ for it. I fight for mine. 
If I couldn’t git it that way, I’d gamble for it—or 
steal it! But I’ll be damned if I’d lie to a pal! I 
want you, kid! I—yes—damn it! I love you! But 
there ain’t goin’ to be no half-ways about it! You’ll 
either belong to me or to Kid Morowitz—you can’t 
belong to both!” 

The stage was denied a star when Lotta Rivoli 
cast her lot with the underworld. Just as her superb 
ability as an actor had carried her through more 


70 


Without Gloves 


than one trying situation in the department stores, 
so now it leaped forth to triumph over the accusa¬ 
tion of her outraged lover. With a cry she leaped 
to her feet, and her eyes brimming with tears, threw 
her arms about the man’s neck: “Oh, you do love 
me!” she sobbed, “You do! You do! But, you are 
wrong—all wrong!” 

“It ain’t no use-” 

The girl’s finger tips pressed against his lips, 
smothering the words, “Listen, big boy, I see it all, 
now! I was a fool to lie to you. But I lied because 
—I loved!” 

“Morowitz?” the question rasped nastily from 
between the man’s lips. 

“No, no! Only you! For Morowitz I do not 
care so much as that!” She snapped her fingers in 
the air and hastened on: “I will come clean—will 
tell you everything. You see, I did not know— 
the papers said you were a truck driver before you 
began to fight I did not think you would under¬ 
stand. I thought that if you knew my—business 
you would hate me. I told you I was an artist. I 
am, in a way—but not the way you think. I am 
an artist in my profession. I am a crook—yes, a 
shifter—a shoplifter.” She paused and smiled, 
slightly, as her glance drifted about the room. 
“And, it has paid me well. I became so much of an 



Lotta Rivoli Returns 


7i 


artist in my line that rather than try to catch me, 
the managers of many great stores are glad to pay 
me to never enter their doors. Each month I get 
my pay—the pay of a private dick. And to earn 
it I do nothing but stay away from their stores. 
It is easy grift and it pays—well. I was afraid to 
tell you this before. I know you better, now. For 
you said if you couldn’t get your money by fighting 
for it you would gamble, or steal it. But I am no 
worse than the others—they all steal—the big from 
the little, the strong from the weak—always. But 
I steal only from the rich—from those who 
can afford to lose. It is not wrong—one must 
live.” 

“Sure it ain’t,” cried the man, impatiently, “I 
don’t care nothin’ about that. But Morowitz—how 
about Morowitz?” 

“I am coming to that,” the red lips smiled, and 
the dark eyes glowed softly, “So jealous, and—I am 
glad. For I know by that, you love me. For a 
year, now, I have lived in Philadelphia. I keep this 
apartment also, because each month I must come 
to New York to collect my—salary. And, then 
sometimes, I run down and stay a few days when 
it seems—necessary, for reasons of my profession. 
But I live in Philadelphia because there I can work 
at my profession. There the stores do not pay me 


72 


Without Gloves 


to stay away, and it is easier because the store dicks 
are not as wise as here. 

“But the police are alike, one place and another. 
They've got my number, and I must kick in. It is 
the same in a certain part of Philadelphia as in 
New York. The police have their go-betweens, 
and their collectors. Over there Jack Keen is the 
same as Lefty Klingermann and a few others are 
here. I kick in to Jack Keen, and he squares me 
with the bulls. The other day I met a police lieu¬ 
tenant on the street and he told me I wasn’t play¬ 
ing square, that I was holding out, and he threatened 
to get me. Then I hunted up Jack Keen, because 
he knows I play square. It was the night of the 
fight at Trenton, and he had no time to talk to me, 
but I was afraid the bulls would frame me that 
night, because the lieutenant was sore. Keen and 
Morowitz were going to drive to Trenton in a big 
car, and Keen told me to go along and we could 
talk. So I went, and we doped out a plant for 
that bull, and I waited in the car till after the fight, 
and then we drove back." 

The man’s hands closed upon her wrists in a vise¬ 
like grip: “Then, you ain’t be’n livin’ with Moro¬ 
witz?’’ The dark eyes that met his own so steadily, 
registered supreme disgust, and the red lips curled 
slightly: “Morowitz!" she hissed, “I hate him! 


Lotta Rivoli Returns 


73 


But, you are hurting me!” she winced with pain at 
the grip of his hands, and with a laugh he released 
her wrists, and seating himself upon the davenport, 
he drew her to his lap where for a long time he held 
her close. “Tell me, kid,” he asked, at length, “Why 
do you hate Morowitz?” 

The dark eyes flashed: “Oh, you should hate him, 
too—if you love me. A long time ago, it was— 
before he learned I could take care of myself-” 

“Wait till I get in the ring with him! Damn 
him! I’ll fix him!” 

The girl looked quickly into his face: “Ah, yes! 
In the ring! When do you fight him? If it could 
only be soon!” 

Duffy smiled: “What’s the hurry?” he asked. 
“The way things is doped, him an’ I hook up some¬ 
time in the fall.” 

With a little sigh of regret, she laid her head 
back against his shoulder: “Too bad,” she breathed, 
“If you only could fight him this summer. He may 
be able to—come back, by fall.” 

“What do you mean—come back?” asked the 
man, curiously. “He win his Trenton fight, didn’t 
he? An’ he’s goin’ to fight the St. Paul guy in 
August.” 

The girl sat suddenly erect: “You have not seen 
the papers?” she asked, in surprise. 



74 


Without Gloves 


“What papers? I ain’t looked at none today. 
They wasn’t no fights come off last night.” 

For answer she slipped from his arms, and cross¬ 
ing to a small table picked up a newspaper, carried 
it to the light, and turned to a news story upon the 
sporting page. “Listen at this: 

‘St. Paul, Minn.—Patsy Gibson local heavy¬ 
weight, met with a serious accident while return¬ 
ing in his automobile from White Bear Lake with 
a party of friends late last evening. According to 
best reports obtainable the car, which was being 
driven at a rapid rate, skidded at a sharp curve and 
turned turtle. Gibson was pinned beneath the 
machine and suffered the fracture of his right arm 
and several ribs. He was hurried to the hospital 
where internal injuries are feared. 

‘Gibson was to have fought Kid Morowitz of 
Philadelphia in August, and it is understood in 
sporting circles that the winner of that bout was 
to have challenged the present holder of the heavy¬ 
weight title. 

‘Gibson’s manager wired Morowitz this morning 
calling the fight off, or at least postponing it in¬ 
definitely, as the doctors state that the battler will 
not be able to fight for six or eight months at least, 
if indeed, he will ever again enter the ring/ 

“So you see,” continued the girl, “Morowitz don’t 
have to fight in August, and with all summer to rest 
up, he might be able to come back strong in the 
fall.” 


Lotta Rivoli Returns 


75 


Duffy was all interest, now. “You talk about 
him cornin’ back. What’s the dope? Ain’t he 
right?” He paused abruptly, and a gleam of sus¬ 
picion flashed into the eyes he fixed on the face 
of the girl: “An’ if he ain’t, how in hell do you 
know so much about him?” 

Lotta Rivoli laughed, and crossing the room, 
seated herself close beside him: “Oh, I know I am 
a spy, and I do not like spies. I would not tell 
anyone else what I heard, even though I hate Kid 
Morowitz. But, you I will tell—because I love you. 
I want you to win. It is this way: I went to 
Trenton with Keen and Morowitz that night because 
I must talk with Keen. It did not take so long to tell 
him what I had to say, and we finished before we 
got to Trenton. Going home I pretended to sleep. 
I was really sleepy and it was late, and part of the 
time I dozed, but the car was not a good place to 
sleep in, and I would keep waking up, and then I 
heard them talking, and I pretended to be asleep 
so I could hear them. First they talked about the 
fight and of how they were satisfied to win without 
a knockout because Morowitz had to save himself 
all he could because his heart was bothering him. 
Morowitz told Keen that if the ’Frisco Wonder had 
known it, he could have got him with a rap on the 
heart any time. Then they talked about the fight 


76 


Without Gloves 


with Gibson, and they figured that Morowitz would 
have to cut out most of the heavy work in train¬ 
ing. Morowitz even talked of having it put off, 
but Keen wouldn’t stand for it. He said the doctor 
claimed he could keep Morowitz going till after the 
fight, anyhow. ‘Just this one more fight, Kid,’ 
says Keen, ‘And then in the fall that easy money 
of Lefty Klingermann’s and we’re through.’ I 
knew Lefty was your manager, and it made me mad 
to hear them talk about you as ‘easy money.’ ” The 
girl was toying with the man’s hand in her lap, and 
she failed to catch the peculiar expression that flitted 
across his face at her words. “Easy money!” she 
cried, “We’ll show ’em if it’s easy money, won’t we 
—dearie?” 

“I’ll say we will!” cried Duffy, “I’ll knock him 
cold for that—an’ what you told me.” 

“But—couldn’t you fight him sooner?” 

Duffy considered: “I’d like to fight him tomor¬ 
row,” he answered, “the quicker the better. But, 
I’ve got some other fights on—onless Lefty could 

sidetrack ’em.” 

■- 

“Oh, maybe he could!” 

“Maybe—but, if the Kid’s heart has went bad on 
him, maybe he won’t be in no hurry to fight. Maybe 
he’s good an’ damn’ glad he don’t have to fight this 
summer.” 


Lotta Rivoli Returns 


77 


The girl laughed and shook her head: “He’ll 
fight, all right. I heard a lot of things that night. 
He’s broke—he’s got to fight! They figured that 
what they dragged down at Trenton would just 
about pay expenses till the Gibson fight. Take it 
from me, big boy—they’ve got to fight!” 

Duffy leaped to his feet: “It’s me to find Lefty!” 
he cried, “What’s the use of stringin’ along with 
these other guys? If they want to fight me after 
I knock Morowitz out there’ll be plenty time to do 
it. Believe me, with that inside dope I’ll knock 
him cold!” 

The red lips pouted: “You are going to run away 
and leave me?” 

He drew her to him and held her close: “Sure, 
kid, I want to git Lefty on the job before some 
other guy steps in an’ gits a date. Never you mind 
—it won’t be long now till we’ll be together all the 
time.” 

“But—it’s early, yet. Can’t you come back?” 

“Maybe, an’ maybe not. Lefty’s a hard guy to 
find nights. I might have to shag him all over 
town. An’ I might not find him till morning.” 

“Maybe there is some other girl—prettier than I 
am. And you must go to her tonight.” 

Duffy laughed: “Nix on that stuff, kid. You’re 
the only skirt for me! Honest, kid—I never had 


Without Gloves 


78 

no other girl!” her laugh was smothered in his 
kisses, and releasing her he turned to the door. “If 
I find Lefty before midnight, I’ll be back. If I 
don’t I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

“Not tomorrow night, dearie,” she answered. 
“Fve got to be in Philadelphia tomorrow night. It’s 
the night we frame that fresh bull. I’ve got to be 
there. If I ain’t Keen would be in bad and if Keen 
went back on me, the bulls would make quick w'ork 
of me.” 

Again the look of suspicion had leaped into Duffy’s 
eyes, and the red lips answered with a pout: “You 
don’t trust me! Even after what I told you! See, 
I trust you-” 

“Forget it, kid,” smiled Duffy, “Day after to¬ 
morrow night, then.” 

“Day after tomorrow night—right here—at the 
same time. And—shall I dress up for you?” her 
eyes were sparkling, and spreading out her arms 
she whirled rapidly about, so that her short skirts 
stood straight out from her waist. 

“Just like tonight!” cried the man, “God, kid— 
let me out of here! You’ll drive me crazy 1” 



CHAPTER VI 

IF I LOSE? 

It was four o’clock in the morning when, in a 
little all night restaurant on Rivington Street Duffy 
found Lefty Klingermann, seated at a table with 
the Police Captain of the district in civilian clothing. 
Unlike many of its counterparts, this particular 
restaurant did actually serve meals, although an un¬ 
initiated observer, had one such been present, must 
have wondered at the fact that most of the patron«, 
ignoring the white clothed tables, passed to the rear 
and disappeared through the door of an enormous 
refrigerator. From which proceeding the uninitiat¬ 
ed observer would have erroneously deduced that 
said refrigerator was kept and maintained for the 
illicit purveying of liquor. As a matter of fact, the 
refrigerator concealed the entrance to a stairway 
which led to the floor above, where flourished a 
stuss bank in which Lefty Klingermann held a half- 
interest. 

Advancing directly to the table, Duffy drew up a 


79 


8 o 


Without Gloves 


chair and seating himself close beside Klingermann, 
drew the folded Philadelphia newspaper from his 
pocket: “Did you see that?” he asked, indicating 
the news story from St. Paul. 

Klingermann adjusted his eyeglasses, and care¬ 
fully read the lines. “No,” he answered, “I didn’t 
see it. What about it?” His tone was coldly de¬ 
precating, but behind the words Duffy detected a 
certain restrained eagerness. 

“What we want to do,” he answered, “Is to step 
in an’ take Morowitz on while the takin’s good.” 

“What d’you mean—while the takin’s good?” 
asked Klingermann, quickly. “I figured on fightin’ 
him this fall.” 

“I mean I seen him fight over to Trenton, an’ so 
did Red, an’ both of us knows that if it would of 
be’n me in the ring with him that night I’d of got 
me a knockout. He’d ought to handled this here 
’Frisco Wonder easy, an’ the best he gits, is a de¬ 
cision. If we wait till fall maybe he’ll be in shape 
agin.” 

Klingermann grinned: “What’s the difference? 
I ain’t takin’ no chances on that bout. When the 
time comes I’ll have it all sewed up before she starts.” 

“Yes, but you won’t have to pay so high fer 
your sewin’. He knows, an’ Keen knows, he’s way 
off.” 


If I Lose? 81 

“Chances are they won’t talk now. They’ll wait 
till fall when they kin make a better deal.” 

Duffy grinned: “Not on your life! I’ve got the 
inside stuff on Kid Morowitz. Never mind where 
I got it, but it’s the goods all right. Morowitz is 
on the rocks. He needs the jack. He’s got to 
fight.” 

“What’ll Red say? I had a hell of a time to talk 
him into takin’ Morowitz on this fall. He wanted 
to wait till next year. An’ besides I’ve lined up a 
string of fights fer the summer.” 

“Bust ’em, then. There ain’t nothin’ much in ’em, 
nohow. An’ you needn’t worry none about Red. 
He seen the Trenton fight.” 

Klingermann turned abruptly upon the Captain, 
who had been an interested listener: “You’re in on 
this—fifty-fifty. It’s goin’ to take quite a piece of 
change to swing it. I know Keen, an’ he’ll hold out 
fer a big bunch of cash. But we’ll clean up at that. 
There’ll be plenty of Morowitz money, an’ they’ll 
give odds. Maybe Duffy’s right. Anyways, I’m 
goin’ to slip over to Philly this mornin’ an’ see 
Keen.” 

“What’ll it cost?” asked the officer, doubtfully. 

“Oh, three, four, maybe five years’ pay,” grinned 
Klingermann. “But, think of it! It’s the chance 
of a lifetime. The sports failin’ all over theirselves 


82 


Without Gloves 


to give odds on Morowitz, an’ the fight all sewed up 
beforehand, an’ only us on the inside. All you got 
to do is hustle around an’ get your mitts on every 
cent you can beg, borrow, or steal, an’ put it on 
Duffy. Lord, what a clean-up!” 

“Yes, an’ Lord what a clean-up, if somethin' goes 
wrong,” foreboded the Captain, lugubriously. 

Klingermann shot the speaker a scornful glance: 
“Didn’t I jest git through tellin’ you I was goin’ to 
slip over an’ see Keen, myself? Well, when Little 
Lefty takes holt of a deal, it don’t go wrong—you’d 
ought to know.” 

“Oh, sure!” the Captain hastened to reply, “It 
looks good—so damn’ good I’m goin’ to do just like 
you said an’ bet everything I can get holt of. That’s 
why I was thinkin’ that if-” 

“They ain’t no ifs about it. They ain’t no one 
goin’ to try to put nothin’ over on me—not what 
you’d notice. They’s boys within three blocks of 
right where we’re settin’ that would follow a man 
clean to hell if I winked my little finger at ’em—an’ 
they’d get him, too. Keen knows that, an’ so does 
Morowitz.” Klingermann pushed back his chair 
and rose to his feet. “I need a little sleep if I’m 
goin’ to jump over to Philly this mornin’.” He 
turned to Duffy: “So do you, Kid. ’Cause, if your 
dope’s right you’ll be steppin’ into the ring with 


If I Lose? 83 

Morowitz about a month from now, an’ it’s up to 
you to make a hell of a show of trainin’.” 

The three left the restaurant and turned into 
Avenue A where Duffy parted with them at the 
door of his hotel. Ten minutes later he drew on a 
pair of blue silk pajamas and grinned at himself in 
the mirror: “I didn’t say nothin’ to Lefty about Kid 
Morowitz’s bum heart or he might of figgered I’d 
ought to handle him without buyin’ the fight. I 
ain’t takin’ no chances—me. But, believe me, when 
the Kid gives me the openin’ for the fake knockout, 
it ain’t goin’ to be no fake that I hand him. Damn 
him! If she was handin’ it to me straight, he’s got 
it cornin’! An’ if she’s lyin’ to me—he’s got it 
cornin’ all the more!” After which outburst, he 
turned out his light and slipped into bed. 

Later that same morning Lotta Rivoli, alias Dago 
Lottie, arrayed in a neat travelling suit, drew swiftly 
aside as the bulky form of Lefty Klingermann 
joined the crowd that awaited the opening of the 
train gate in the Pennsylvania Station. When 
finally the throng trickled through she trailed and 
watched him enter the vestibule of the club car, 
and as she passed on to the chair car, she 
smiled a trifle grimly: “Lefty ain’t losing any time,” 
she muttered, “Big fat Kike! They think he’s a 
hell of a fixer down in Union Market. I gypped him 


8 4 


Without Gloves 


once, an' he ain’t forgot it, an’ I’ll gyp him again, 
too, when I get the chance. The dirty crook! If 
he tries to put anything over on me on account of 
me throwing in with Mike, I’ll show him I start in 
figuring where he leaves off.” 

Among the first to leave the train at Philadelphia, 
the girl stepped into a taxi and a few minutes later 
let herself into an apartment with a latchkey. Kid 
Morowitz stood before a mirror adjusting a necktie. 
“Well, what luck?” he asked, without turning his 
head. 

“Rotten luck,” answered the girl peevishly, “They 
wouldn’t only ten of ’em come acrost. The rest of 
’em stalled along with a line of bull about reducin’ 
their force of detectives. Meaning that they ain’t 
afraid of me no more. Some of ’em even dared me 
to try to work their stores. That’s what I get for 
coming over here and living till they forget I’m 
alive.” 

Morowitz frowningly regarded the girl as she 
drew off her gloves: “Don’t start in on that!” he 
growled, “Ain’t I told you a hundred times that I 
couldn’t of got nowheres if I’d stayed in Noo York.” 

“That’s all right for you, but how about me? 
And I don’t see as you’ve got such a hell of a ways. 
You’re on the rocks, ain’t you?” 

“Damn near it,” admitted Morowitz, “But, at 


If I Lose? 


85 


that, I’ve got up to where I stood to challenge the 
champ next winter. An’ if that damn’ Gibson hadn’t 
gone an’ got hisself busted up in his auto we’d of 
drug down enough off that fight to put us all to the 
mustard. An’ as fer the jack, I spent it when I had 
it, an’ I spent it on you, didn’t I?” 

The girl tossed her gloves upon the table, and 
advancing to the man smiled into his face as she 
laid her two hands on his shoulders: “Sure, you 
did, Kid. There ain’t nothing in us two quarrelling. 
I was a little sore on account of them guys turning 
me down. But, I’ll show ’em. Damn ’em, they’ll 
be lucky if they’ve got their counters left when I 
get through with ’em!” 

Morowitz grinned, and seating himself in a big 
chair drew the girl to his lap: “That’s the talk, 
Lottie, an’ believe me, you’ve got to get busy. I 
figgered we had about enough jack if we was care¬ 
ful to last till the Gibson fight. But now that’s gone 
fluie an’ on top of that, they’ve cut your regular meal 
ticket right plumb in two. Somethin’s got to be 
done, an’ you’re the one to do it.” 

The girl laughed: “Oh, that part of it’s all right. 
But, you know, I’ve got a hunch things ain’t so bad 
as they look.” 

“What d’you mean, ain’t so bad? I don’t make 


86 


Without Gloves 


“You know there’s been quite a little talk in the 
papers lately about a guy named Duffy that’s coming 
strong over in the big burg?” 

“Yup. Mike Duffy. I seen a piece in the paper 
the other day where he win a fight an’ made his 
brag he was goin’ after the winner of the Moro- 
witz-Gibson fight.” 

“Do you know who’s his manager ?” 

“Lefty Klingermann, the damned crook.” 

The girl nodded: “That’s what I was thinking. 
Well, Lefty Klingermann was on the train this 
morning coming to Philadelphia. Of course I don’t 
know, but I just got a hunch that maybe he’d saw 
in the papers where your fight with Gibson was off, 
and was coming over to talk business.” 

“The hell you say!” exclaimed Morowitz, his eyes 
lighting with real interest. For six months he had 
known that his fighting days were numbered. His 
heart was bad, and getting worse. His physician 
had insisted that he quit the game. He tried another 
physician, and another, until he found one that 
agreed to undertake the responsibility of keeping 
him in the ring until after his fights with the ’Frisco 
Wonder, and with Gibson. About that time Klin¬ 
germann, knowing nothing of the failing heart, had 
intimated that after the Gibson fight he would like 
to make a “deal”—a proposition to which both he 


If I Lose? 


87 


and Keen had willingly assented. They knew that 
Klingermann had money, and that the arrangement 
would afford a profitable wind-up to a ring career 
already foredoomed. Morowitz’s main concern had 
been the girl with whom he had been living for a 
year. He loved this girl with a brutish, passionate 
man-love that amounted almost to a mania. Know¬ 
ing as he did, her championship ambitions, the 
thought of losing her maddened him and caused him 
to conceal from her all knowledge regarding the 
weakening heart. Quite by accident she had learned 
the truth, and with cunning and finesse that far 
exceeded his, she kept Morowitz in ignorance of this 
fact, and straightway hunted up Duffy. The fact 
that when she came to him he knew that she had 
already been the wife of one man and the mistress 
of another mattered not at all. He had wrested her 
from Bull Larrigan as part of the spoils of battle. 
Nor did it matter that underworld rumour had it that 
she had contrived the bumping off of her husband. 
This had been but a means to the end that he, Moro¬ 
witz, should possess the girl. His supreme egotism, 
together with the superb ability of the girl to live 
the part she played had of late convinced him that 
when the time came for him to quit the game she 
would, despite her championship aspirations, cast her 
lot with his. Klingermann’s visit to Philadelphia 


88 


Without Gloves 


could mean but one thing. The time had come for 
him to sound the girl out. 

The telephone bell rang sharply. With the re¬ 
ceiver to his ear Morowitz listened to the voice of 
Keen: “Hello, Kid! Say, Lefty’s in town—had me 
on the wire a minute ago. Says how he seen that 
the Gibson fight was off, an’ he didn’t know but 
what we’d consider takin’ on Duffy. I stalled along 
an’ told him you an’ me would drop around to his 
hotel ’long about three this afternoon. Me an’ you 
better get together first—see ?” 

Morowitz turned to the girl: “You’re a pretty 
good guesser,” he said, “That was Keen, an’ he 
says Klingermann wants to make us a proposition.” 

The man had returned to his chair, and leaning 
against his shoulder Lotta gently stroked his cheeks 
with her long flexible fingers: “How good is Duffy, 
Kid?” she asked, abruptly. 

Morowitz hesitated for a moment before replying: 
“Pretty good, I guess. The dope looks like he’s 
about the best there is next to me, now Gibson’s out 
of it.” 

“But—you can handle him, Kid?” 

Morowitz laughed, shortly. “Hell! I’ve always 
handled ’em, ain’t I ?” 

“Sure you have! And you could handle the 
champ, too!” 


If I Lose? 


89 

“Well, I figured on challengin’ him sometime this 
winter,” his voice held a rather evasive, groping 
note that the girl was quick to catch. 

“Good!” she cried, with just the right touch of 
enthusiasm, “And then, Kid—think of it—then 
you’ll be the champ! The best fighter in all the 
world! Think of the fun we’ll have—the easy 
money in the big time vaudeville. We can stall along 
for a couple of years an’ be the main scream where- 
ever we go!” 

“Sure we can!” he seconded eagerly. But, the 
words came with a visible effort. 

“Say, Kid,” the girl asked, abruptly, “What’s 
Lefty Klingermann in the fight game for, anyhow?” 

The Kid shrugged; “Search me. For the jack, I 
guess, same as anyone else.” 

“Not on your life he ain’t,” contradicted the girl. 
“He gets his easier than that. Every crook in his 
precinct kicks in to him, and so does every stuss 
dealer and the men that run the hang-outs, and 
believe me, a big slice of the jack they turn in sticks 
to Lefty. The rest he passes on to the Captain. And 
besides that he owns an interest in a half a dozen 
different games, and they pay out big.” 

“Maybe he’s in it for his health, then—like some 
folks goes to the sea-shore.” 

“No, it ain’t his health, either. I’ll tell you why 


90 


Without Gloves 


he’s in it. He’s in it because he wants to manage a 
champ. He thinks this Duffy guy is a world beater, 
and he’ll spend money to put him to the top.” 

“Where’d you git that stuff?” asked Morowitz, 
a gleam of suspicion lighting his eyes. 

The girl smiled: “Oh, I know Klingermann. I 
lived in his precinct. And I know that money ain’t 
going to stop him when he goes after something he 
wants. Take it from me, Kid, if you and Keen 
play it wise, you can clean up big on this fight.” 

“You mean-?” 

“I mean that you know, and I know, and Keen 
knows, that you can put it all over this Duffy. He’s 
a baby along side of you. Klingermann don’t know 
that. He thinks his man will win. And besides 
Klingermann is a gam. Don’t sign up with him on 
no 40-60, or 25-75 proposition. Hold out for win¬ 
ner takes all. He might kick a little at first but he’ll 
come through. Then all you got to do is bore in 
with your gloves and grab off the jack.” 

The girl paused and Morowitz stared hard at the 
pattern on the rug. “But, s’posin’—You know you 
can’t never tell what’s goin’ to happen in the ring. 
S’posin’ somethin’ happened, an’ I don’t win?” 

The girl laughed—a silvery, tinkling laugh of pure 
merriment: “Quit your kidding Kid! Who’s this 
Duffy guy, anyhow? What’s he ever done? If he 



If I Lose? 


91 


lasts five rounds with you it’ll be because you want 
the sports to get their money’s worth. But, you’re 
only kidding.” 

“Maybe I’m kiddin’—an’ maybe I ain’t,” answered 
Morowitz, his eyes still on the rug. “I’m askin’ you 
—s’pose I lose?” 

Instantly the girl’s pose changed, and dropping 
to her knees beside him, she looked up into his face, 
her eyes wide with solicitude: 

“What do you mean, Kid—if you lose?” 

“I mean this 1” he cried, seizing her wrists in his 
two hands, “I mean if I lose this fight where do 
you stand? You’ve told me a thousan’ times you 
love me! Do you? Do you love me enough to stick 
by me if I lose? Or, do you love me like you loved 
Bull Larrigan ?” 

The colour left the girl’s face. The man’s fingers 
were biting into the soft flesh of her wrists, hurting 
her, and his voice rang harsh with a half-concealed 
sneer. 

“Don’t! Don’t, Kid, you’re hurting me! Of 
course I love you! You’ve made me love you! I 
couldn’t love no one else if I tried. And if you lose, 
we lose together.” 

The man’s grip relaxed, his arms were about her 
shoulders, and his lips were close to her ear; “I’m 
sorry I hurt you. But, God, Lottie, I see red when 


92 


Without Gloves 


I think of losin’ you! It’s my heart—on the bum. 
You seen what I done at Trenton. If I’d of be’n 
right, I’d of et that guy up. I’m on the toboggan. 
I got a hunch that this here Duffy will put me away. 
But, I don’t give a damn, now I know how you feel. 
I’d like to of gone to the top, fer your sake—but, 
we won’t need to worry none. You had the wrong 
hunch on this fight. What I want to do is hold 
Klingermann down to a 40-60 split, or a 50-50 
would be better if he’d stand fer it. Then if I lose, 
I’ve got a proposition that’s got the fight game faded 
a mile. We’ll drag down more jack in a month than 
a champ does in a year—an’ not half the work.” 

“What is it?” asked the girl, with a show of 
unfeigned eagerness. 

“Tug boatin’.” 

“Tug boating! What do you mean? Running 
one of these here dirty little boats that goes tooting 
and snorting around the harbor?” 

“That’s the kind of boat I mean. Only this here 
boat don’t do no tootin’ an’ snortin’, an’ she makes 
most of her trips at night.” 

“At night?” 

“Yes, at night, an’ without no lights. Runnin’ 
hop.” 

“Running hop! And have the whole Gov’ment 
after you! Say, Kid, I’ve been outguessing cops 


If I Lose? 


93 


and dicks all my life, and I’ve got away with it, so 
far. But I never fooled with the Gov’ment. They’ll 
get you. And when they do get you they’ll put you 
away right! They’ll take your boat, and then 
where’ll you’re money be?” 

Morowitz laughed: “Let me run in a batch or 
two first, an’ they can have the boat. Listen, the 
profits is so big that every trip pays more’n the 
boat’s worth. Some of them boats has made a hun¬ 
dred times what they cost, an' they’re still goin\” 
The girl shrugged. “Maybe—I’ll think it over. 
But don’t you worry, Kid. We’ll find some way. 
Of course, I wanted you to be the champ—but it 
don’t make no difference. You better run along now 
and see Keen. I’ve got to pack three or four trunks, 
and I don’t want you hanging around in the way.” 
“Pack trunks! What for?” 

Lotta laughed: “Foolish one! What should I be 
doing while you are training for your fight? How 
much money have we got? Enough, maybe, to last 

till the fight—and nothing more-” 

“Well, that’s enough, ain’t it? I’ll clean up 
enough on this fight to buy into that proposition, 
an’ we won’t need to worry none then.” 

“But, why not make a real clean-up while we’re 
at it? I want some money to bet. I’m going to 
put up every cent I can get hold of-” 



94 


Without Gloves 


The man interrupted her almost savagely: “But, 
hell! Didn’t I jest git through tellin’ you I’d maybe 
lose?” 

“That’s just what you’ve got to do—lose. My 
money’s going down on Duffy. Silly one! Can’t 
you see? If you go in to lose, my money’s got to 
win.” 

Morowitz grinned, sheepishly, “Sure, kid—I’d of 
thought of that, first off, if it hadn’t be’n your 
money. You see, I never figgered to see you bettin’ 
agin me. You got the right hunch, all right. Put 
up all you can git holt of, an’ you ought to git in on 
the short end, too. But—where you goin’ ?” 

“Why, back to the big burg, of course. ’Back to 
where there’s something worth while to lift, and 
where I can get a decent price for it when I get it. 
And besides there’s a string of stores that’s got to 
be showed they made a mistake in cutting down their 
detective force.” 

“They’s plenty of stores here,” answered the Kid, 
sulkily. “Why in hell can’t you stay here?” 

“What, stay in this rube town?” she sneered, 
“This ain’t a city, it just thinks it is. It’s an insult 
to my work to pull anything here. Work like mine 
ain’t appreciated in this burg. If goods ain’t marked 
down to a dollar-seventy-nine there ain’t no crowd 
around the counters—and I need the crowd. And 


If I Lose? 


95 


besides when I do business with a fence, I want one 
that knows a diamond brooch from a hod of coal! 
The best dealer here had the nerve to offer me three 
hundred for that black fox piece, and when I took 
it to New York Rosenbloom slipped me twelve hun¬ 
dred for it without batting an eye.” 

“When you goin’?” asked Morowitz, -only half 
mollified. 

“Tomorrow. No use wasting time. Tonight 
we’ll celebrate—you and I. And tomorrow we’ll 
both get to work.” The girl accompanied him to the 
door where, standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on 
the lips. And as the door closed behind him, she 
smiled. 


CHAPTER VII 


BULL LARRIGAN COMES BACK 

With the Morowitz-Duffy fight only a week 
off, the sport sheets were devoting space to the 
event commensurate with the importance of the 
only major heavyweight contest of the year. Daily 
news stories appeared, and daily interviews from 
one camp or the other, with principals, trainers, or 
managers. Each contestant had publicly boasted 
that in the event of winning the fight he would 
challenge the title holder, and having thus aroused 
the public interest, the managers deftly kept it alive 
by daily bulletins from the camps. Sparring part¬ 
ners were knocked out. Mysterious new lines of 
offence and defence were being developed. Until 
the speed of Duffy and the terrific punch poundage 
of Morowitz were topics of daily conversation 
wherever men foregathered. 

It was the general concensus of opinion among 
the sport writers and the dopesters that Morowitz 
96 


Bull Larrigan Comes Back 97 

would win. Odds of five to three, seven to four, 
and nine to five drew out a little Duffy money, but 
on the whole the backers of the New York boy 
seemed extremely cautious. 

These were the halcyon days for Lefty Klinger- 
mann. He had returned from Philadelphia three 
weeks before, with a decidedly bad taste in his 
mouth, and a profound respect for the bargaining 
ability of Messrs. Keen, Morowitz & Co. For the 
sum demanded, and which he was forced to pay, 
was an amount so far in excess of what he had 
figured that it caused him some concern, and nearly 
caused the Captain of Police, who had been drawn 
into the deal, a fit of apoplexy. But, now, with the 
pain of the extraction dulled, Lefty Klingermann 
fairly wallowed in the newspaper notoriety he had 
paid for so dearly. 

As the time for the fight drew nearer, the scarcity 
of Duffy money emboldened the Morowitz fans to 
offer two to one, and at that figure those on the 
inside began to cover big bets. Keen succeeded, by 
devious methods, in placing his share of the amount 
paid over by Klingermann. Duffy placed all he 
could rake and scrape together. And Klingermann 
blatantly wagered large sums for himself and the 
Captain of Police. Dago Lottie, too, plied her trade 
with a vim, and as fast as she cashed her plunder, 


98 


Without Gloves 


put the money up on Duffy. It was a beautifully 
simple scheme. The fight fans betting on Moro- 
witz, and all those on the inside taking the short 
end. 

Only three people in the two camps were not 
betting. Morowitz, holding out in hope that his 
widely advertised training, and his bombastic state¬ 
ments of “no chanct to lose,” and “dead sure thing,” 
would force the odds to five to two. Red Casey, 
the old trainer, who, despite the sneers and jibes 
of both Klingermann and Duffy, absolutely refused 
to bet on a fixed fight. And Bull Larrigan, who 
had been hired as a sparring partner for Duffy. 
Bull Larrigan was suspicious. He had been taken 
on by Klingermann upon the same terms that Casey 
had been employed: “One drink, and you’re 
through,” Klingermann had told him. For the 
cause of Larrigan’s downfall from high estate in 
the prize ring was well-known on the East Side. 
So also was known his abysmal hatred of Kid 
Morowitz. Not because Morowitz had knocked 
him out in the ring the year before, but because 
after knocking him out, he had robbed him of his 
girl. For three weeks, now, Larrigan had worked 
with Duffy—had taught him much, for Larrigan 
in his prime had been a real fighter. The thing 
that Larrigan could not fathom was that Duffy was 


Bull Larrigan Comes Back 99 

willing to work hard in preparation for a fight that 
was already his. Then, one week before the fight 
he found out. 

The three weeks of gruelling grind and strict 
observance of training had done wonders for Bull 
Larrigan. His muscles had hardened, his eyes had 
cleared, and his old speed was fast returning. Red 
Casey noted the change even before Larrigan him¬ 
self was conscious of it. Then he discovered it— 
discovered suddenly that Duffy was at his mercy. 
All at once it dawned on him that he could knock 
Duffy out any time he chose. And if Duffy, why 
not Morowitz? The old fighting spirit suddenly 
awakened, and that night, alone in his room, Bull 
Larrigan fought the fight of his life. The first im¬ 
pulse that leaped into his brain at the discovery, was 
to fittingly celebrate the event—and with Larrigan, 
to celebrate meant to get drunk. For three weeks he 
had kept away from the booze because he needed 
the money that Klingermann was paying him. It 
had been fairly easy. His days had been taken up 
in Duffy’s training quarters, and so faithfully did 
he perform his work, that at night he went to his 
room dog tired. But now the pent up desire for 
drink surged upon him with his new found strength. 
Bull Larrigan was no fool. He shared the East 
Side’s knowledge of his own downfall. He had 


IOO 


Without Gloves 


disregarded the warnings of trainers and managers 
in his ring days, and had continued to flirt with 
whiskey until whiskey got him. Then, it was too 
late. He accepted the fact of his defeat, and drank 
more heavily than before. They all had told him 
he was done—and he believed it. But, now, sud¬ 
denly he had found out they were wrong. He could 
come back! He had come back! He knew this— 
and by morning the whole East Side would know. 

Snatching up his cap, he paused with a hand on 
the door knob and allowed his eyes to sweep the 
confines of the shabby room that was his home. 
The cheap wooden dresser with its cracked and dis¬ 
torted mirror. The iron bedstead with its enamel 
scaled off in spots and splotches. The washbowl 
in the corner, stained with the rust of chronically 
dripping faucets. The bare floor. The filthy wall¬ 
paper that sagged and bulged from the wall. And 
the unpainted board with its row of hooks from 
which depended a battered hat, a dejected sweater 
with ravelled elbows, and a limp suit of serge. Men¬ 
tally he contrasted the room with Duffy’s apart¬ 
ment in the Avenue Hotel. Bright coloured rugs, 
glittering brass bedstead, clean white bath room, 
mahogany dresser with its array of monogrammed 
toilet articles, and whole closets full of expensive 
clothing. 


Bull Larrigan Comes Back ioi 

“An’ I’m a better man now, den he is!” The 
words formed themselves in a growl from between 
clenched teeth. With an oath, he jerked the cap 
from his head, hurled it into a corner, turned the 
key in the lock, and threw himself fully dressed 
upon the bed. Bull Larrigan slept little that night. 
He dozed fitfully, awakening at frequent intervals 
to battle with his desire for liquor. He drank 
quantities of tepid water from the tap, and planned 
ring battles, round by round. Always it was Kid 
Morowitz that he fought. And always the fight 
ended with Kid Morowitz lying limp on the canvas 
while he himself stood over him, as his own name 
roared from a thousand throats. 

In the morning, he bolted a huge breakfast, and 
went to work, and that day he learned a little thing 
that changed the course of prize ring history. 

“Got some special work for you today, Bull,” 
informed Duffy, approaching him in the locker 
room, an hour before the regular daily work-out. 

“Dat short left chop I was-?” 

“No. I got the hang of that chop, all right.” 
Duffy glanced around to make sure they were alone, 
and stepped closer. “You know Lefty fixed things 
up with Morowitz and Keen.” 

Larrigan nodded, and waited for the other to 
proceed. 



102 


Without Gloves 


“Well, Morowitz slipped into town last night— 
just him an’ Keen. They kept it quiet, an' got into 
my rooms without anyone catchin’ on. Lefty was 
there, an’ Red Casey, an’ we rehearsed the finish. 
It's in the seventh, an’ it goes like this: Morowitz 
leads off strong, an’ forces me to the ropes. I 
clinch. We break, an’ in the break, I leave an 
openin'—like this. Morowitz slams in a swing for 
the jaw that misses by an inch, which leaves him 
wide open. I come in quick with a right an’ left 
to the jaw. He’s clawin’ the air, an’ I follow up, 
crowdin’ him close an’ smotherin’ him with hooks 
an’ chops till he goes down for the count. We 
went through it a dozen times, an’ it looks like 
the real stuff.” 

“Well, what’s dis here special work about, den?” 

A peculiar smile curled Duffy’s lips: “That’s all 
right as far as it goes. But, what I want is a real 
knockout.” 

“You mean you want to gyp him?” 

“Yes, damn him! That’s just what I want to 
do! When he misses my jaw and leaves me the 
openin’, instead of swingin’ to his jaw I want to 
land heavy on his heart.” 

Larrigan considered. His hatred for Morowitz 
caused a slow grin to curl his lips, but he shook 
his head: “Nix. It’s like dis: You already got dis 


Bull Larrigan Comes Back 103 

fight on ice. W’at’s de use talon’ a chanct. S’pose 
you don’t git him wit’ de swing to de heart? S’pose 
you miss, or s’pose you don’t land heavy enough? 
Dis here Morowitz ain’t no cinch fer you. W’en 
he finds out yer tryin’ to gyp him, he’ll jest nach’lly 
jump in an’ tear hell out of you.” 

If was Duffy’s turn to grin: “Never you mind 
that. It ain’t goin’ to take much of a rap on the 
heart to stop Kid Morowitz. His pump’s on the 
bum—he’s done.” 

“W’ere’n hell did you git dat dope?” 

“I got it straight enough,” answered Duffy, 
easily. “From the only one that knows it except 
Keen an’ his doc. I got it from a skirt.” 

“Dago Lottie!” the name exploded from Larri- 
gan’s lips, and his fists clenched till the knuckles 
whitened. “Where’d you see Dago Lottie?” 

Duffy smiled cavalierly: “How’d you guess it?” 
he asked, easily. “Yes, Dago Lottie told me.” 

“But, where d’you see her ? An’ how’d she come 
to tell you about—him?” 

“See her!” laughed Duffy, “why, I see her every 
night. You see we’ve got a little flat uptown. 
She put me wise so I could win. She don’t know 
the fight is framed.” 

The colour that had leaped into Bull Larrigan’s 
face slowly receded. His fists relaxed, and he 


104 


Without Gloves 


spoke with a slight trace of huskiness in his voice, 
more to himself than to Duffy: “So, Kid Moro- 
witz’s heart is on the fritz, eh? An’ w’en she 
found out he was t’rough she switched over to 
you, did she? An’—we’re does she go from 
here?” 

“What?” cried Duffy, sharply, “what the hell do 
you mean? You be’n talkin’ to Red Casey. Listen: 
You birds has got that skirt all wrong. She never 
had nothin’ to do with Kid Morowitz. She jest 
happened to be in Philly to see Jack Keen on busi¬ 
ness, an’ she happened to hear him an’ Morowitz 
talkin’ about his heart, an’ she slips me the tip— 
see? Where the hell do you get that stuff about 
her an’ Morowitz? She hates his guts! She’s 
mine!” 

“Oh,” answered Bull Larrigan, slowly. “Well— 
maybe—I—got—her—wrong.” 

“I’ll say you did! Believe me, there’s one moll 
that’s all to the good. I suppose Casey’s handed 
you that line of bull about her framin’ her husband. 
That’s a damned lie. She told me all about it. It 
was one of these here Eyetalian mix-ups, that 
started over in the old country. Them Dagos is 
hell fer croakin’ one another.” Duffy paused and 
dropped his voice, slightly. “ ’Course, Lottie, she 
—works the stores. An’ she’s so damn’ good that 


Bull Larrigan Comes Back 105 

they’re afraid of her. But, other ways—you know 
—she’s square as hell.” 

Larrigan nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “I 
know.” He swung the door of his locker open 
and pulled off his sweater. “An’ she’s bettin’ on 
you to win?” he asked, casually. 

“I’ll tell the world she is! She’ll cop off a nice 
bunch of jack, too.” 

“What do you want to hand Morowitz a knock¬ 
out fer, when you win anyhow?” persisted Larri¬ 
gan, as he unlaced his shoes. 

“There’s a couple of reasons. First off, I hate 
him ’cause she does—see. Then I don’t want her 
to know the fight was framed. I want to put him 
damn’ good an’ out.” 

“An’ what is it you want me to do, now?” asked 
Larrigan, drawing on his trunks. 

“I want you to go through this rehearsal like I 
told you—like Morowitz went through it with me 
last night. I’ll give you the openin’ when we break, 
an’ you slam a right to the jaw that misses, then 
instead of tryin’ fer your jaw, I’ll shoot in a right 
an’ left to the heart. I want to get the range, an’ 
I want you to try an’ block. You’re faster than 
Morowitz, if you can’t block quick enough to cover, 
it’s a cinch he can’t. If you can, we’ve got to dope 
out a way to land those punches faster, that’s all.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE DOUBLE DOUBLE-CROSS 

With the big fight that was to determine the 
challenger of the heavyweight title only two days 
off, Bull Larrigan slipped quietly into a smoking 
car, and landed late in the evening in Philadelphia. 
Stepping into a telephone booth, he called Moro- 
witz’s number, and a few moments later got a sleepy 
answer. “Hello, Kid, dat you?” 

“Yes, it’s me. Who are you, an’ what in hell 
do you want?” 

“I got to see you. I got a message-” 

“Who from?” 

“Dago Lottie.” 

“Well, spit it out,” the voice came more sharply. 

Larrigan laughed. “Nix on dat. I got to see 
you. How do I know it’s you dat’s talkin’?” 

“All right,” growled the voice, “take a taxi. I’ll 
pay for it.” He gave Larrigan a street and num¬ 
ber. “Third floor front. The door’ll be open.” 

106 



The Double Double-Cross 107 

Ten minutes later Kid Morowitz drew back with 
a start as a man with a sweater collar drawn 
high, stepped across his threshold. 

“Bull Larrigan!” he exclaimed and instinctively 
stepped behind a table in the drawer of which lay 
a loaded automatic pistol. 

Larrigan carefully closed the door behind him, 
and faced the other with a grin. “No chanct fer 
a gun-play, Kid. I ain’t heeled. An’ besides I 
come here fer yer own good.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Morowitz, ignoring 
the reference to the gun. 

“I be’n in Duffy’s camp fer a mont’—sparrin’ 
pardner.” 

A thin smile twisted Morowitz’s lips. “An’ you 
want to sell me somethin’ ? Lottie’s name was only 
a stall to get in here?” 

“No,” answered Larrigan, “I’ll leave it to you if 
I’m stallin’. An’—I wouldn’t try an’ sell a man 
back a fight he’d already sold, would I ? What I’m 
here fer is to hand you somethin’. If it ain’t wort’ 
nothin’ to you, all right. If it is, all right agin— 
see?” 

“No,” answered Morowitz, coldly, “I don’t see. 
How long since you be’n such a good friend of 
mine that you’d make a trip over here from Noo 
York to hand me somethin’? What’s yer game?” 


io8 


Without Gloves 


Larrigan scowled, and glared at the other across 
tne table. “Fer more’n a year, I’ve hated yer guts, 
on account of—you know—on account of her. Fd 
of croaked you any day if I t’ought it would of 
got her back—but it wouldn’t.” Morowitz glanced 
toward the table drawer, and Larrigan divined the 
intent. “I told you I wasn’t heeled,” he said harshly, 
“an’ I’m tellin’ you now, I don’t hate you no more. 
Long as you had her I hated you, but now you’ve 
lost her, I hate de man dat’s got her, same as I 
hated you.” 

“Lost her!” Morowitz, forgetting the gun, 
stepped swiftly around the table, and clutched the 
other’s arm. In the light of the electric chandelier 
Larrigan saw that his face had gone suddenly white. 
“What do you mean—lost her?” 

Larrigan glanced about the apartment. “She 
ain’t here, is she?” 

“No! Damn you! She’s in Noo York-” 

“Livin’ wit’ Mike Duffy in an uptown flat-” 

“It’s a damn lie! Duffy lives at the Avenue 

Hotel. I was in his rooms-” 

“Um-hum—rehearsin’ de sevent’ round. ’Course 
a man can’t have two places! An’ course if he 
did, he’d took you to de one wit’ de girl in it. It 
would make it nice all around.” 

Morowitz’s grip relaxed, and he sank into a chair, 




The Double Double-Cross 109 

and motioned Larrigan into another. “Prove it, 
damn you! If you’re lyin’ I’ll croak you right here. 
What’s yer game? What did you come here for?” 

“I come because dat damn dirty double-crossin’ 
yeller bastard has got de girl I love—yes, I love 
her! I don’t give a damn who knows it. I’d go 
t’rough hell to git her back—right now! If croakin’ 
him would do it, he’d be planted by now—but it 
wouldn’t. Dere’s jest one chanct—an’ dat’s you.” 

“Me!” exclaimed Morowitz, in surprise. 

“Yes, you. It’s like dis.” He paused and fumb¬ 
ling in his pocket drew out a rumpled newspaper 
clipping which he handed to Morowitz. 

Several days before, an old sport reporter had 
stood for a long time and watched Bull Larrigan 
and Mike Duffy at their work in Duffy’s training 
quarters. He was a reporter who had known Lar¬ 
rigan in his better days—had known Red Casey, 
too. When the workout was over he hunted up 
Casey. Then he went back to the office and sat 
down at his typewriter and wrote a story. It was 
a story which was also a prophecy. It began and 
ended with an if. It recited Bull Larrigan’s ring 
record, and his bar record, also. It was to the 
effect that if Bull Larrigan, the forgotten, the 
down-and-outer, would let booze alone, he could 
come back with a rush that would carry him to the 


iio 


Without Gloves 


top in a year’s time. Many people read the story. 
Many who knew Larrigan laughed. Others scoffed. 
The old sport reporter came in for much kidding, 
in and out of print. Red Casey read it, and be¬ 
lieved it. Bull Larrigan read it, and knew that it 
was true. Dago Lottie read it, and wondered. 
Morowitz read it, and handed it back with a grin. 
“Have a drink?” he asked, “I’ve got a bottle here.” 

“I’ll cut my t’roat first,” answered Bull, gruffly. 
“I’m goin’ to de top!” 

“An’ where do I come in?” smiled Morowitz, 
patronizingly. 

Larrigan leaned forward, his voice tense: “Don’t 
go tryin’ dat on wit’ me. You knocked me out, 
onct. You got my girl away. You’ve got a swell 
flat, an’ swell clothes, an’ you eat swell grub. An’ 
I’m a bum. I live in a dirty hole, an’ de clothes I 
got on my back is de best I own. But, by God, I’m 
a better man dan you are right now! An’ I’ll have 
all de t’ings you got now w’en you ain’t got a nickel 
left! I told you I come up here to hand you some¬ 
thin’. I did. But, it ain’t altogedder on your 
account. It’s ’cause I kin use you in hittin’ a lick 
fer myself.” The man paused, and the other waited 
for him to proceed. “It’s like dis : De way you an’ 
Duffy has got de sevent’ round framed, you open 
last an’ crowd him to de ropes. He clinches. In 


The Double Double-Cross 


hi 


de break, he leaves a openin’ an’ you slam in wit’ 
a right to de jaw dat misses, leavin’ him a openin’ 
an’ he comes in wit’ a right an’ left to de jaw, an’ 
follers up wit’ hooks an’ jabs dat smother you be¬ 
fore you kin come back from de jolt on de jaw. 
You take de count. Am I right, or wrong?” 

“That’s right,” admitted Morowitz. 

“Well, git dis: Duffy ain’t goin’ to swing on 
yer jaw w’en you give him de openin’. He’s goin’ 
to come in wit’ two damn’ swift swings to de heart 


“The heart!” cried Morowitz, quickly. 

“Yes, de heart. He’s be’n tryin’ it out on me 
fer two days, an’ believe me, he’s dere wit de 
stuff!” 

“But—why in hell should he do that? The 
fight’s all framed to go the way we rehearsed it. 
What’s the big idee?” 

“De girl,” answered Larrigan, “She’s got him 
fooled. He don’t believe she ever lived wit’ you, 
but she’s told him enough so he hates you an’ he’s 
goin’ to make it a real knockout. Den besides, he 
don’t want her to know de fight’s framed.” 

“There you go, with the girl, again. Damn you, 
you ain’t proved nothin’ yet! You ain’t proved she 
even knows Duffy.” 

“I ain’t, eh? Well, maybe you’ll tell me what 



112 Without Gloves 

a couple of good stiff jolts on de heart would do 
to you.” 

Morowitz stared, hesitated, and tried to bluff: 
“Anyone knows a stiff enough jolt on the heart’ll 
stop any man. But he couldn’t hit hard enough to 
hurt me, even if he landed.” 

Larrigan grinned: “ ’Tain’t no use, Kid. Listen : 
Yer heart’s on de bum. You had to change docs 
to stay in de game fer dis fight. You’re done. 
Dat’s why she quit you—like she quit me w’en I was 
done. How would I know dis if she hadn’t told 
Duffy, an’ Duffy told me? She’s double-crossed 
you, Kid. An’ Duffy’s goin’ to double-cross you 
agin.” 

Morowitz leaped from his chair and paced up 
and down the room cursing like a mad man. He 
cursed his doctor, his heart, the girl, Keen, Klinger- 
mann, and Larrigan, but most of all he cursed 
Duffy. “Damn him to hell! I’ll fix him! I’ll 
tear into the dirty pup the first round an’ I’ll butcher 
him! I’ll show him! I’ll kill him!” 

Larrigan listened until the other had worn him¬ 
self out, and settled again into his chair. “Dat’s 
one way,” he admitted, half scornfully. “But, w’at’s 
idfe use of takin’ chances. Dis here Duffy ain’t no 
baby—w’at I’m tellin’ you. An’ if I had a bum 
heart I wouldn’t take no chances in de ring wit’ 


The Double Double-Cross 113 

him. He’s dere wit’ de punch, an’ he’s got science, 
an’ speed. He’s got everyt’ing he needs, but de 
guts.” 

“What the hell am I goin’ to do then? Stand 
up to him an’ let him gyp me! Let him swing on 
me, when a good stiff punch on the heart would 
prob’ly croak me!” 

“No, I wouldn’t do dat. An’ if I had everyt’ing 
cornin’ my own way I wouldn’t make no fool play 
like tearin’ in to kill him de first round, neither.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“I mean, I’d play de game wit’ his own chips 
till it comes to de sevent’. W’en de sevent’ starts 
you bore in an’ crowd him to de ropes, like it’s 
doped out fer you to do, den he’ll clinch, den on de 
break he’ll give you de openin’ to swing fer his 
jaw—an’ miss. S’pose you don’t miss? S’pose 
you land on his jaw w’en he ain’t lookin’ fer it, 
wit’ everyt’ing you got, an’ den foller it up wit’ 
another ?” 

Morowitz leaped to his feet, excitedly: “That’s 
the dope!” he cried, “damn him! I’ll learn him to 
try to gyp me! An’ I’ll learn her, too!” 

Larrigan grinned: “She’s bettin’ every cent she 
can git hold of on Duffy,” he said, “I should worry. 
De buster she is, de quicker she’ll come back to 


me* 



Without Gloves 


114 

“To you!” 

“Yes, Kid—to me! It’s a pug she wants—a 
champ. She’s t’rough wit’ you. She don’t want 
no broken down sport wit’ a bum heart. Dey ain't 
no chanct fer you to git her back, no matter which 
way de cat jumps. You’re done. An’ here’s an¬ 
other t’ing. Believe me, w’en you knock Duffy fer 
a gool you got to hunt yer hole an’ lay dost. De 
girl ain’t de only one dat’s playin’ Duffy to win. 
An’ she ain’t de only one dat’s bust de minute de 
referee counts ten over Duffy. Dere’s de Cap, an’ 
Lefty—an’ a dozen gunmen dat jumps w’en dey 
pulls de string. An’ besides, dere’s Keen. He’s 
got his jack up on Duffy, too. W’at’s he goin’ to 
say w’en he finds out you’ve gyped him?” 

“Damn Keen! Damn the Cap! And damn Lefty! 
I’d gyp the world to knock that dirty double-crosser 
cold! I don’t owe them birds nothin’. Keen made 
all the jack he ever owned off me, now he can lose 
it where he got it.” 

“How about you?” asked Larrigan, “ain’t you 
got de jack Lefty paid over bet on Duffy, too?” 

A twisted grin was Morowitz’s answer, and 
reaching into his pocket, he drew out a thick roll 
of yellow bills. “I was waitin’ fer the odds to go 
up,” he said, unrolling the bills and fingering their 
edges. “Here’s jack enough fer a gitaway, an’ 


The Double Double-Cross 115 

some to spare. An’ I can get half agin as much 
by bettin’ on myself.’' 

Larrigan, his eyes on the roll of bills, forced a 
look of indifference: “You got to be damn’ careful, 
bettin’ on yerself,” he suggested. “S’pose Keen 
or Lefty got wise to it? An’ even if you got de 
jack down wit’out dem findin’ it out, you dastn’t 
show yer mug to collect it. Believe me, Kid, yer 
goin’ to be on de run w’en de referee says 'ten.’ 
You don’t even dast to go back to yer dressin’ room. 
Keen’ll be layin’ fer you, an’ yer trainer, too, wit’ 
a water bottle, an’ a couple of Lefty’s gunmen will 
finish up de job.” 

“What am I goin’ to do?” asked Morowitz, 
growing a shade paler. 

“Leave it to me,” answered Bull Larrigan, re¬ 
assuringly. 

“But, you-” 

“Sure, I know. I hated you ever since you 
grabbed de skirt offen me. But, you ain’t got her 
no more, so w’at de hell! I show’d you I’m right, 
didn’t I—w’en I put you wise dat Duffy was goin’ 
to gyp you, an’ land on yer heart hard enough to 
maybe croak you? Come heads er tails, yer in a 
hell of a fix anyways. If you go t’rough wit’ it 
de way it’s doped, Duffy croaks you wit’ a smash 
on de heart. If you knock Duify out, an’ gyp Lefty 



Ii6 


Without Gloves 


an’ Keen, an’ de Cap, Lefty’s gunmen croaks you. 
I’m de only chanct you got. Listen: Dis fight’s 
pulled off in de Bon Ton. De minute you slip 
t’rough de ropes after it’s over you make fer de 
locker room, but don’t go on t’rough to yer dressin’ 
room. Turn left behind de first row of lockers 
an’ you’ll find a door. Go t’rough dat into de little 
hallway at de head of de stairs dat goes to Dreyfus’s 
office. I’ll be dere wit’ a suit of clothes. You 
crawl into ’em an’ beat it to a taxi I got waitin’, 
an’ slip over to my room. It ain’t no swell joint 
like dis, but it’ll do fer a hide-out. Lefty’ll be 
combin’ Noo York wit’ a fine toot’ comb to find 
you, but dey won’t never look fer you dere.” 

“But, how about this?” asked Morowitz, finger¬ 
ing the bills. “That don’t give me no chanct to git 
my money down.” 

Larrigan shrugged: “Well, you might take a 
chanct on gittin’ it down without dem findin’ it out. 
An’ another chanct on showin’ up to collect it after 
de fight. But, believe me-” he finished the sen¬ 

tence with an expressive grimace. 

“If I was sure you wouldn’t gyp me,” muttered 
Morowitz, after a pause, during which his fingers 
riffled the edges of the bills, “I’d get you to put 
this down along with yours.” 

Larrigan laughed: “A guy can’t never tell what’s 



The Double Double-Cross 117 

goin’ to happen to him till it does. An’ some guys 
is funny, at dat. Here’s you willin’ to take a chanct 
on me keepin’ you from gittin’ croaked, an’ won¬ 
derin’ if you dast take a chanct on me wit’ yer roll. 
De quicker you make a get-away, an’ de furder you 
go, de easier it is fer me to git Dago Lottie back. 
She’s all I want—to hell wit’ you!” 

Without a word, Morowitz handed over the roll, 
and Larrigan stuffed it into his pocket: “Remember 
de dope, now, an’ don’t fergit it.” He paused, 
grinning, “You knocks out Duffy, an’ den you beats 
it. Dat leaves de skirt fer me. I got what I come 
after—an’ you’ll git yours. So long.” 

As he descended the stairs, his fingers tightly 
clutching the roll of yellow bills, he grinned again: 
“I’ll say he will!” he muttered, savagely. “I’ll tell 
de cockeyed world!” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE FIGHT 

As the c!:iy of the Morowitz-Duffy fight ap¬ 
proached, New York’s underworld felt more and 
more Lefty Klingermann’s urgent need of cash. 
Under threat of police interference, and vague hints 
of gunman activities, he gouged and extorted right 
and left; and the crooks, and the keepers of dives, 
and gambling houses, and hide-out joints and fences 
paid. They whined, and squawked, and cursed, and 
threatened dire vengeance — but they paid. With 
his uncanny intuition as to the whereabouts of dis¬ 
honest dollars, Klingermann ferreted them out and 
appropriated them. Playing a sure thing, he levied 
upon his own stuss banks until the reserve held 
against a run of adverse luck was shaved to a 
dangerous minimum. And on top of this, he bor¬ 
rowed prodigiously among the petty merchants of 
his precinct. On ten-day notes, signed jointly by 
himself and the Captain of Police, he obtained 


The Fight 119 

thousands of dollars at an interest of ten, and even 
twenty-five per cent for the ten days. 

The result of this eleventh hour flood of Duffy 
money was to force down the odds. Morowitz 
money became hard to find, and when found was 
offered at one-and-a-half, at one-and-a-quarter to 
one, until on the day of the fight bets were laid 
at even money, and plenty of Duffy money in 
sight. 

It was on that day that Bull Larrigan, in an 
uptown pool room, whose management knew noth¬ 
ing of his connection with the camp of Duffy, 
succeeded in placing his roll—his own money, and 
the money entrusted to him by Morowitz. “It’s a 
funny old world, take it up an’ down and cross- 
ways, w’en you come to t’ink about it,” he solilo¬ 
quized, as he crossed over and walked down Fifth 
Avenue. “Take Lefty, now, an’ de Cap, an’ Kid 
Morowitz, an’ Duffy, an’ Keen, an’ Lottie. Gawd! 
All of 'em settin’ in de big game togedder—an’ not 
a damn one of ’em hep to what’s cornin’ off. De 
deck’s stacked, an’ no one knows who stacked it— 
only me, an’ I’m jest lookin’ on!” 

The Bon Ton club blazed with light. The seat¬ 
ing capacity had been trebled by the removal of a 
partition wall between its gymnasium and an ad¬ 
joining loft building. The usual price of admission, 


120 


Without Gloves 


also, had been trebled, and Dreyfus smiled as he 
stood near the doorway and watched the fight fans 
file in and noisily take their places. 

At the ringside, attired in citizen’s clothing sat 
the Captain of Police. A close observer would 
have noted that his ruddy face was many shades 
paler than was its wont, and that his lips were 
tightly drawn about the butt of an unlighted cigar, 
held stiffly between clamped teeth. The room was 
not uncomfortably warm, but at short intervals the 
Captain ran an uneasy finger around the inside of 
his low collar. He looked neither to the right, nor 
to the left, but sat with his eyes on the newly can- 
vased ring, with its ropes wound with red, white, 
and blue bunting. But the Captain took no note 
of the details of the ring, nor of the crowd that 
was rapidly filling the seats. Before his eyes passed 
a long procession of notes, dozens of notes—hun¬ 
dreds of notes. Notes of varying amounts, and 
of varying rates of interest, but each and every one 
of which bore his name, and must be met within 
ten days of its date—and some of them were al¬ 
ready a week old! Suppose something should go 
wrong! There was an icy chill at the Captain’s 
feet, and he curled the toes in his square black 
shoes. His head and neck felt hot, and for the 
twentieth time he ran his finger around the rim of 


121 


The Fight 

his collar. An acquaintance greeted him jovially, 
and he returned the greeting with a grunt, as his 
eyes sought the bulky form of Lefty Klingermann 
for moral support. 

In sharp contrast to the Captain’s fit of doldrums, 
Klingermann’s manner was hilariously exuberant. 
Moving along the aisles, and about the ringside, he 
called noisy greetings to acquaintances, shaking a 
hand here, slapping a shoulder there, laughing loudly 
at some quip or joke, and stooping low to whisper 
confidentially to some fan of wide importance in 
the pugilistic world. He fairly radiated nervous 
geniality. His little eyes glittered, and he was in¬ 
cessantly on the move. 

A notorious race track plunger known as Parlay 
Smith took his seat at the ringside, and Klinger¬ 
mann greeted him banteringly: “Hello! Parlay! 
Bring your roll along?” 

The man grinned, and held up a thick wad of 
bills. “Want to make a hole in it?” he challenged. 
“You don’t figure that selling plater you’re back¬ 
ing has got a show to win, do you?” 

Klingermann laughed uproariously: “S-a-y! 
That’s pretty good! Tell you what I’ll do—seein’ 
it’s you. You’d bet me even money, wouldn’t you? 
Sure you would—a week ago you was bettin’ two- 
to-one!” Klingermann plunged his hand into his 


122 


Without Gloves 


pocket and drew out a roll of hundred dollar bills 
which he flattened out and counted with a flourish. 
“Twenty of ’em!” he announced loudly. “Twenty 
centuries! Two thousand of the good old iron 
men!” he slapped the packet of crisp bills loudly 
against the palm of his hand. “But I ain’t a-goin’ 
to let you bet even. I’m a-goin’ to give you odds 
of two to one! Yessir, two-to-one on that boy! 
It’s costin’ me a cold thousand to do it. But, it’s 
worth that in advertisin’ to these folks just what 
I think of him. There’s a boy, gents, that’s goin’ 
to be the next champ! An’ don’t you fergit it! 
Who says so? Little Lefty says so! Little Lefty 
Klingermann! You’ll all be cornin’ to Lefty fer 
the fight dope, after tonight!” He paused abruptly 
and thrust the bills toward the other: “Want it? 
All right, cover it with a grand, an’ let your friend 
there hold the stakes, or hold ’em yerself, if you 
want to. That’s the last bet made—two-to-one on 
Duffy!” Cheers and cat-calls broke out in a pande¬ 
monium of noise as the man covered the money. 
Shouts filled the air, and Klingermann was besieged 
with offers at the same odds. For answer he thrust 
both hands into his trousers pockets and turned 
them inside out. “Busted!” he roared. “Busted, 
an’ mortgaged to the ears! But I won’t be long!” 
And with his pockets adangle, he took his seat 


The Fight 123 

beside the Captain of Police, just as the official 
announcer stepped through the ropes. 

The preliminaries were exceptionally good, and 
the big crowd showed noisy appreciation, and with 
a tremendous ovation of noise, it greeted the two 
contestants of the main bout as they were formally 
introduced from the ring. For it was no secret 
that the winner of this fight would challenge the 
champ, and excitement ran high. 

At Morowitz’s appearance the sold trainload of 
Philadelphia rooters threatened to raise the roof 
with their din, which was drowned a few moments 
later as Duffy stepped through the ropes, by the 
mighty roar that surged from the throats of the 
New Yorkers. 

Duffy walked to his corner and sat down. His 
glance swept the sea of faces about him, and he 
smiled complacently, as his thoughts carried him 
back to his first appearance in that selfsame cor¬ 
ner, and of the alternate waves of icy chill and 
burning heat that shot through his body as the 
minutes dragged by while he waited for the dilatory 
Bull Larrigan to take his place. Much water had 
passed under the bridge since that evening, when 
Thunderbolt Leonard, the truck driver, his blood 
turned to water in his veins, had nervously awaited 
the arrival of his first professional antagonist. 


124 


Without Gloves 


Measured in days and months, the time that inter¬ 
vened had not been long. Measured in' worldly 
experience it was a far, far cry back to that night. 
In the interim, the unsophisticated truck driver had 
learned many things. Through the untiring efforts 
of honest old Red Casey, he had learned that he 
was a good boxer—not a good fighter—for despite 
his victories over the fighters that were the best the 
city afforded, he knew, and Red Casey knew of the 
fear that was always at his heart—the yellow streak 
that would not down. Physically he was a superb 
athlete, a clever boxer, and a hard hitter. But his 
wholesome association with Red Casey had been 
more than offset by his unwholesome association 
with Lefty Klingermann, and with those about him 
whose cunning brains permitted them to live 
opulently in more or less open defiance of the 
law. 

The suspicion that “a man is a fool to work,” 
that had come with the fruits of his first pro¬ 
fessional battle, had cemented into a firm conviction 
by his daily contact with the wolves of society. 
It was this twist in his mental complex that made 
him leap at Klingermann’s offer to buy the Moro- 
witz fight. To Duffy, money meant everything, 
personal achievement nothing. No pride of victory 
swelled his breast. He fought hard to win, not for 


125 


The Fight 

the sake of winning, but because the winner drew 
down the lion’s share of the proceeds. And for the 
same reason he wanted to be the champ. With 
envious eyes he read of the easy money to be de¬ 
rived from vaudeville and cinema engagements, and, 
until Lotta Rivoli had come to loom large in his 
scheme of things, his desire to win the heavyweight 
championship had rested wholly upon the acquisi¬ 
tion of this easy money. But Lotta Rivoli was 
ambitious. The prestige of championship meant as 
much to her as the emoluments of championship, 
and in the weeks of her association with Duffy, 
she had partially succeeded in instilling into the 
fighter a little of her own enthusiasm, so that he 
actually thrilled as the storm of applause broke 
over his entrance to the ring. And so, as he sat 
in his corner, his eyes roving over the massed 
humanity about him, he smiled complacently. For, 
in his mind’s eye, he was already the champ. With 
Morowitz out of the way it would be easy. For 
Duffy shared the general opinion that the holder 
of the belt was a pugilistic joke, who would go 
down before the first real fighter who faced him. 

Someone had been haranguing the crowd from 
the ring, announcing weights and conditions. The 
man ceased speaking, and Duffy found himself upon 
his feet in the centre of the ring with Morowitz, 


126 


Without Gloves 


his trainer, Red Casey, and the referee, perfunctor¬ 
ily examining gloves and bandages. Then he was 
again in his corner and Casey was tying on the 
gloves. 

At the sound of the gong, he faced Morowitz, 
who led off with a stiff right to the jaw which 
Duffy easily blocked, and countered with a left 
whip to the stomach. The round became a fast 
exchange of hooks and jabs, and ended, so far as 
apparent result showed, in a draw. 

The second round saw some heavier hitting, some 
clever blocking and equally clever foot work. This 
was clearly Morowitz’s round as it ended with Duffy 
on the defensive, his back to the ropes. 

Morowitz obtained a shade the best of the third, 
although Duffy seemed to be coming stronger, and 
the round ended with both contestants, toe to toe, 
in the centre of the ring. 

It was in the fourth that Duffy first noted the 
sinister gleam in Morowitz’s eyes. The man’s blows 
came thick and fast, and behind each blow was a 
stab of hate from the narrowed eyes of the fighter. 
The yellow streak showed. A sudden fear gripped 
his heart, and his attention diverted, Morowitz 
rushed him viciously into the ropes for a clinch. The 
round ended with the Morowitz rooters on their 
feet yelling their heads off. 


127 


The Fight 

Duffy pulled himself together during the inter- 
mission, and with the knowledge that the fight was 
his anyway, he led out strongly and forced the 
fighting to the end of the round. It was his own 
rooters who were on their feet this time, and he 
attributed Morowitz’s ferocity to his desire to give 
the fans their money’s worth, and to allay all sus¬ 
picion of the fight’s having been framed. It was 
during the intermission after this round that Duffy 
discovered that Lotta Rivoli occupied a ringside 
seat close under his corner, and that next to her 
sat Bull Larrigan, whose loudly bellowed ap¬ 
probation of the round drowned all voices about 
him. 

The close proximity of the girl nerved him, and 
Duffy leaped from his corner at the sound of the 
gong, and met Morowitz in his own corner. This, 
too, was Duffy’s round. Twice he forced Morowitz 
to the ropes, and with a thrill of exultation, he 
noted that the man was weakening. More hateful, 
more sinister than before, his eyes flashed, 
but his blows had lost much of their punch, and 
he hung heavily in the clinches. In the opinion 
of many fans the gong saved Morowitz. And as 
Duffy went to his corner he wondered whether the 
man had been stalling, paving the way for the 
knockout that would come in the seventh. 


128 


Without Gloves 


Through the ropes he caught a glimpse of the 
face of the Captain of Police. It was white as the 
tightly twisted newspaper that he gripped with his 
two hands. Beside him sat Lefty Klingermann, 
who leaned forward with tightly clenched lips, his 
low collar open at the throat, the ends of his gaudy 
necktie a-dangle. 

The room rang with cries of “Duffy!” “Duffy!” 
“Eat him up!” “Oh, you Duffy!” “Polish him 
off!” “Knock him through the ropes!” Duffy 
glanced down. Close beside him, looking up at 
him, her eyes like stars, Lotta Rivoli flashed him 
a smile of encouragement. Even the face of Bull 
Larrigan appeared drawn—tense. Of all the faces 
about him, only the face of the girl showed no trace 
of excitement—the girl and Red Casey. 

Duffy glanced across the ring where Morowitz’s 
trainer was whispering frantically. Duffy could 
see his lips move rapidly as he fanned the fighter 
who lay back with his arms stretched along the 
ropes. A wave of resentment shot through him as 
he glanced into the face of Red Casey who was 
plying his towel in silence. The face of the old 
trainer was impassive as a mask. He performed 
his work with automatic precision. He had scarcely 
spoken a word since the fight started, a fact that 
conveyed to Duffy plainer than many words, the 


129 


The Fight 

older man’s disgust at being a party to a framed 
fight. “Old fool,” thought the fighter, “I’ll ditch 
him. . . The gong rang for the seventh. 

The two men met in the centre of the ring. 
Morowitz opened the attack, and exactly as in re¬ 
hearsal Duffy began to retreat slowly before the 
rain of blows. Inch by inch he gave backward, 
blocking, countering, furiously exchanging blow for 
blow. The narrowed, bloodshot eyes of Morowitz 
seemed to blaze with hate, and as his own eyes 
met them momentarily a sudden premonition of 
evil struck a chill to Duffy’s heart. He felt the 
ropes pressing into his back and with his brain a 
whirl of panic, he clinched. Directly below him 
the face of the Police Captain showed like the face 
of a dead man, paper white, the eyes staring and 
glassy. Morowitz’s lips were against his ear, and 
his words came with a hiss of hot breath, “Break! 
Damn you! Git it over! I’m—all in!” Duffy 
broke. Letter perfect in his role, he allowed his 
foot to slip just enough to throw him momentarily 
out of balance—the move that left the opening for 
Morowitz’s long swing that should miss his jaw by 
an inch. He caught the flash of a glove as the 
swing was launched. Eyes on his opponent’s breast, 
he tensed his muscles for the blow that would land 
on the weakened heart, the Judas blow that would 


130 


Without Gloves 


rid him of the glare of those fateful eyes. Some¬ 
thing happened. There was a blinding flash of 
light. A crushing, stunning weight crashed against 
his jaw. His muscles went limp. The ropes were 
swaying with his weight. His gloved hands were 
open. There was a terrible din of voices that 
blended into a roar of thunder. Another crashing 
blow reached his jaw, and for a single instant, he 
caught the gleam of hate in Morowitz’s eyes. He 
felt no pain—only a terrible numbness. He felt 
his body slipping along the ropes, he must gather 
himself for that swing to the heart. But—some¬ 
thing was wrong. His muscles refused to obey the 
order of his numbed brain. His open right hand, 
dangling uselessly from his limp arm, was almost 
touching the canvas as he slipped slowly down the 
ropes. Another crashing blow, and—he was lying 
on the deck of a boat that rocked fearfully. Some¬ 
where, close behind him, a man was counting— 

six—seven—eight- Suddenly the numbed brain 

awoke. He was in the ring—down—and the referee 
was counting him out. Him—Mike Duffy! Double- 

crossed! Gypped!—Nine- With a mighty 

heaving of muscles he gathered himself together, 
raised himself on one knee, and sprawled his length 
on the canvas. 

Boom! Instead of the fatal “ten” the clang of 




The Fight 131 

the gong sounded above the thunderous uproar of 
voices. 

With Red Casey’s arms under his shoulders, he 
was half-dragged to his corner, where he sprawled 
against the ropes. Fumes from a bottle held close 
against his nose cleared his brain. Dashes of ice 
water upon his skin revived his flaccid muscles, and 
the cold air of the fanning towels was beginning 
to dispel the deadly numbness that gripped him. 
Red Casey was whispering, and he saw that the old 
man’s eyes were flashing. ‘‘Go get him! Boy— 
he double-crossed ye! Ye can do it* yet! He’s 
weakened. His heart’s gone bad.” A surge of 
rage welled up within him, and Duffy glanced wildly 
about him. The face of the girl was deadly white. 
And between the ropes the Captain of Police, with 
his glassy-eyed stare, had not moved. Lefty 
Klingermann was not in his seat, and Bull Larri- 
gan, too, had disappeared. The sound of the gong 
brought him to his feet automatically, and Casey 
shoved him into the ring. Instinctively Duffy 
raised his gloves to meet the man who leaped at 
him like a wild beast. Rage blazed from Morowitz’s 
eyes, and his lips writhed in a snarl of hate. The 
gong had cheated him by a second, but- Sud¬ 

den fear gripped the heart of Duffy—stupefying, 
abysmal fear. With a gurgling sound in his throat, 


Without Gloves 


132 

he raised his crooked arms about his face and turn¬ 
ing, ran to the ropes, with Morowitz’s gloves thud¬ 
ding his back, his shoulders, and the back of his 
head. Far out over the ropes he leaned to avoid 
the thumping blows. A flash of white caught his 
eye, as Red Casey, his face a thundercloud, tossed 
a towel into the ring. The blows ceased. A pande¬ 
monium of noise broke loose, but different from 
the thunderous applause that had greeted the finish 
of the rounds. Cries of “Yellow dog!” “Quitter!” 
“Piker!” “Yellow!” “Drag him out!” “Kill him!” 
coupled with cat-calls and hisses, commingled with 
the shouts of applause for Morowitz. Cries of 
“Morowitz!” “Morowitz!” filled the air. After 
what seemed a long time Duffy turned from the 
ropes. But for himself and the referee the ring 
was empty. Even Red Casey had departed, and 
Morowitz was nowhere to be seen. 


CHAPTER X 


THE GET-AWAY 

His brain in a whirl, Duffy stood and stared 
out over the seething sea of faces that swirled and 
eddied about the ringside. Amid the wild cheers 
and applause for Morowitz, he caught, now and 
then, the sound of his own name coupled with oaths 
of contempt, or obscene words of disapprobation. 
Gradually his wits cleared. It was all over. The 
fight was over—and Morowitz had won! With a 
shudder he glanced back over his shoulder half ex¬ 
pecting to meet those glaring eyes and snarling lips. 
He couldn’t stand—he wouldn’t stand another of 
those terrible smashing blows that drove to his jaw 
—the sickening flash of light—and the stupefying 
numbness that left him limp and lifeless upon the 
heaving canvas of the ring. Everywhere sneering 
faces looked up into his own. Damn them—they 
didn’t understand. Morowitz had gypped him! If 
they knew they wouldn’t be yelling for Morowitz! 
He wet his lips with his tongue and glanced down 


133 


134 


Without Gloves 


straight into the face of Lefty Klingermann. Close 
behind him stood Bull Larrigan. The beefy face 
of the Jew was crimson. Duffy noticed that the 
thick neck overbulged the band of the silk shirt. 
Then, the narrowed, bloodshot eyes met his, as 
Klingermann raised a shaking forefinger: “You 
yellow dog! You dirty welcher! He was all in! 
If you’d stood up to him one minute—handed him 
one punch, you’d of got him! But, damn you! 
You’ll get yours!” The man’s voice was thick with 
passion, and the words came jerkily from between 
the thick lips. 

Two men reached Klingermann’s side. They 
were squat, dark men who wore caps, and Duffy 
recognized them as gunmen—killers. Klingermann 
bent low and whispered into their ears, and as he 
listened the black eyes of one of them raised and 
met Duffy’s squarely. The man nodded—and dis¬ 
appeared in the crowd. Icy chills crept up and down 
Duffy’s spine. A new terror gripped him. On 
trembling legs he turned toward his corner, the 
motion chilling the clammy sweat that had started 
on his forehead and chest. 

His bath robe lay on the floor where it had 
dropped when Red Casey pushed him into the ring 
for that fatal eighth round. There should have 
been no eighth round! Morowitz had gypped him! 


135 


The Get-Away 

He stooped to recover the robe, and found himself 
staring straight into the eyes of Lotta Rivoli. The 
girl had not moved. The black eyes flashed and 
the red lips twisted in scorn: “You piker!” she 
hissed, “you yellow pig! If you’d have fought 
instead of bought you’d have won! I know you 
—now! Bull Larrigan told me—right here at the 
ringside. You dirty double-crosser! You got what 
was coming to you! The tip I handed you was 
straight. If you’d have played it you’d won!” 

“But—listen—girl—I--” 

“Listen—hell!” The writhing scorn of that last 
word silenced Duffy and he stared stupidly as the 
girl turned to Bull Larrigan, who had gained her 
side through the rapidly thinning crowd. 

She laid a hand affectionately upon Larrigan’s 
arm, and Duffy saw that the dark eyes glowed 
softly as the red lips, curved now in a wondrously 
ravishing smile, spoke words that came distinctly 
to his ears: “Come on, Bully boy, take me home. 
This place—stinks!” As Larrigan led her down an 
aisle at the heels of the crowd, she whispered to 
him: “I’m broke, Bull. I bet all I had on that 
lemon, and he dogged it!” 

The fighter’s big hand squeezed her arm, and 
he grinned: “Never mind, kid. You come wit’ 


me- 




Without Gloves 


136 

“Not to your room—to that hole on-” 

“No kid, not dere. Dey’s somet’in cornin’ off 
dere pretty quick you wouldn’t want to see.’’ 
Deftly, he piloted her down the stairs and across the 
sidewalk, and into a waiting taxi, which at a 
word, drew away from the curb and headed up¬ 
town. Fifteen minutes later the car stopped, and 
bidding the girl stay where she was, Larrigan dis¬ 
appeared into a narrow hallway. A few moments 
later he re-appeared, and to her surprise, the girl 
heard him give the chauffeur the number of her 
own apartment. The next moment he was seated 
beside her, and thrusting a hand into either side 
pocket he withdrew them, each grasping a huge roll 
of yellow bills. The girl stared: “Where—where 
did you get them?” she managed to gasp. “They 
told me you was down and out—living like a rat 
in a hole.” 

The man laughed: “It’s a funny world, ain’t it, 
kid? I’ve come back, an’ we’re goin’ clean to de 
top dis time. Nix on de booze fer me! It was de 
strong stuff dat put me where I was at. But, I 
come back.” 

“Sure, Bull, I know. And I’m with you, Bull. 
I was a fool ever to quit you. But you know-” 

“Sure, kid—I know. I was on de rocks, right. 
I ain’t blamin you-” 





137 


The Get-Away 

“But—where did you get all the jack? You 
ain’t fought since—since Duffy knocked you out.” 

“He can’t do it now! I could knocked him fer 
a gool a dozen times in de las’ two weeks-” 

“Sure, I know—but the jack?” 

“Part of it’s wages,” answered the man, “an’ 
part of it’s Kid Morowitz’s share of de jack Lefty 
Klingermann slipped him an’ Keen fer to buy de 
fight, an’ de rest of it’s w’at someone else bet on 
Duffy.” 

“But—how'd you get it?” 

“Me? Oh, de Kid wanted I should bet it fer 
him. You see he dasn’t let Keen find out he was 
bettin’ on hisself.” 

“But, where’s Kid, now ?” 

“He won’t be needin’ it no more. You see, de 
Kid double-crossed Lefty, an’ I slips Lefty de word 
dat de Kid’s hidin’ out in my room, an’ Lefty he 
passes de word on to Stiletto John Serbelloni an’ 
de Sicily Ape, along wit’ some orders.” 

Involuntarily the girl shuddered and shrank close 
against the man’s side at the mention of the names. 
Larrigan grinned: “Yup, de same ones you hired 

to git-” 

“Don’t—don’t!” cried the girl, throwing her 
arms about him, “That’s all past and gone, now. 
And, oh, Bull, you’re a wonder!” 



I3« 


Without Gloves 


Gathering his bath robe about him, Duffy slipped 
through the ropes, and made his way hurriedly to 
the locker room. The room with its single electric 
light suspended from the ceiling by a cord, seemed 
dark in comparison with the brilliantly lighted ring. 
Voices sounded from the shower room, and glancing 
fearfully toward the open doorway, he gathered his 
clothing in his arms and passed around behind the 
lockers. Klingermann’s threat rang in his ears, 
and in his mind’s eye he could see the venomous 
glitter of the pig-like eyes, and the appraising glance 
of the gunman who had slipped quietly from 
Klingermann’s side and merged himself in the 
departing crowd. Footsteps sounded on the wooden 
floor, and he drew into the blackest shadow at the 
extreme end of the narrow passage where he cow¬ 
ered against the wall. Cold sweat dampened his 
forehead as he listened to the approaching footsteps, 
his eyes fixed upon the light that showed at the 
opening of his alley. If Stiletto John Serbelloni, 
or the Sicily Ape should suddenly appear framed 
in that square of light it would be all off. Cornered 
like a rat in a trap his body would be perforated 
like a sieve by the bullets from the gunman’s auto¬ 
matic. A shadow darkened the mouth of the alley, 
and every muscle tense, Duffy strained his body 
against the wall. The shadow was gone, and the 


139 


The Get-Away 

sound of the opening and closing of a door told the 
cowering man that someone had passed on into 
Dreyfus's private office. 

In feverish haste he tore at his gloves, breaking 
the lacings by hooking them over a nail that pro¬ 
truded from the wall. Without removing his trunks 
he drew on his clothing with trembling fingers, 
cursing himself for the conspicuously loud checked 
suit of clothing he had selected for the occasion. 
With fumbling fingers he succeeded in lacing his 
shoes, and the next moment was stealing swiftly 
toward the square of light at the mouth of the 
alley. An inspiration seized him as his shoulder 
brushed a pair of overalls that hung where some 
workman had left them, and pausing he drew them 
on over his checked trousers. Pausing at the mouth 
of the alley to glance fearfully about him, a dis¬ 
carded sweater and a dilapidated cap that hung on 
the opposite wall of the room caught his eye, and 
hurling his hat into the shadow he crossed the room 
and lifted the garments from their nails. Voices 
still sounded from the shower room through which 
he must pass to gain the door by which he had 
been accustomed to enter and leave the training 
quarters. One glance toward the door that led to 
Dreyfus's office sent a shudder through his frame, 
and hastily drawing the sweater on over his Coat, 


140 


Without Gloves 


he pulled the cap low over his eyes and dashed 
through the gymnasium with its deserted aisles, and 
its tiers of empty seats, and two at a time, descended 
the broad steps that led to the main entrance. 

Crowds of fight fans blocked the sidewalk, talk¬ 
ing, gesticulating among themselves. Duffy heard 
his own name mentioned, coupled with oaths and 
angry threats. For these were men who, following 
Klingermann’s lead, had bet heavily on him and 
lost. Holding his breath, he slunk unnoticed through 
the crowd, and with sweater collar turned up and 
cap pulled low, hastened along the street. Mechani¬ 
cally he turned into Avenue A, and proceeded in 
the direction of his hotel. Then, abruptly, he 
paused, and drew into the shadow of a doorway. 
A taxi rolled slowly along the street, and as it 
passed him Duffy caught sight of the dark face of 
Stiletto John Serbelloni. The car drew up to the 
curb in the next block and he saw two men alight, 
cross the sidewalk, and disappear through the 
lighted doorway of a building. The building was 
the Avenue Hotel! 

Duffy turned and fled. On and on he ran, turn¬ 
ing from one half-deserted street into another, the 
one obsession of his brain being to . place distance 
between himself and Union Market precinct. Once 
a policeman called to him to halt, but instead of 


The Get-Away 141 

complying, he redoubled his speed, and turning in¬ 
to a side street, hopelessly outdistanced the officer 
who made a bluff at a half-hearted chase. 

After that Duffy slowed his pace to a walk, and 
a half-hour later descended the stairs to the subway 
and took an uptown train. At Grand Central Sta¬ 
tion he got out and wandered around for a while, 
his eyes darting swift glances here and there, half 
expecting that some sinister minion of Lefty 
Klingermann had penetrated his disguise and was 
dogging his footsteps. 

Duffy had left the subway train at Grand Cen¬ 
tral Station, not with any idea of departing from 
the city, but merely because most of the passengers 
on that particular car disembarked at that point, 
and he followed the crowd which separated and 
subdivided in the labyrinth of the underground city. 
After a time he found himself in a great room 
where people stood about in little groups, while 
others hurried to and fro across the tiled floor, and 
still others, carrying hand baggage, walked slowly 
toward a grilled gate beside which stood a uni¬ 
formed official. 

Having lived all his life within the precincts of 
Greater New York, the trolley, the elevated, and 
the subway had sufficed his need of travel. His trip 
to Trenton with Red Casey had been his sole ex- 


142 


Without Gloves 


cursion on a railway train. Sight of the iron grilled 
gate, and the uniformed guard brought that journey 
vividly to his mind. Here was his chance—his 
get-away. If he stayed in New York Lefty Klinger- 
mann would get him. He might hide out for a 
day, a week, a year—but sooner or later, he would 
come face to face with one of Lefty’s gunmen, and 
then—the roar of an automatic, stabs of hot pain, 
the rap of an officer’s night stick, the little crowd 
of curious, the sound of the ambulance gong, and 
—Duffy shuddered, and made his way toward the 
open gate to the train shed. 

“Ticket!” The guard extended his hand, and 
Duffy stared at him blankly. “Where you goin’ to? 
Where’s yer ticket?” 

“Trenton,” said Duffy, speaking the name of the 
only city outside New York he could remember. 

“Get along with you! This is the Chicago 
train.” 

“Well, Chicago, then. It don’t make no differ¬ 
ence.” 

The guard eyed him sharply: “Where’s yer 
ticket ?” 

“I ain’t got none,” answered Duffy, “Where do 
I git it?” 

The man pointed toward a window across the 


room. 


H3 


The Get-Away 

As the train purred smoothly over the rails, Duffy 
stared out at the tiny lights that twinkled along 
the Hudson. Up to this point the one thought in 
his mind had been to get away—to put distance be¬ 
tween himself and Lefty Klingermann’s paid assas¬ 
sins. That he would be shot down on sight, he never 
for an instant doubted. He knew Klingermann— 
knew it was his boast that no one had ever gypped 
him and got away with it. No one except Dago 
Lottie. She was too smart, even for Klingermann. 

As the miles slipped behind in the darkness, 
and fear gave place to a certain sense of security, 
the events of the evening began to shape them¬ 
selves in his brain. He scowled sullenly at the 
twinkling lights, as a mighty rage against the per¬ 
fidious Morowitz welled up within him. “The dirty 
dog doubled-crossed me,” he thought, “An’ he 
double-crossed Lefty, an’—Gawd! He must of 
double-crossed Keen, ’cause Keen had his money 
up on me. An’ Bull Larrigan, he double-crossed 
me, ’cause he told Lottie about us buyin’ the fight, 
an’ she was gyppin’ me all the time, makin’ me 
think she loved me, an’ the minute things goes 
against me, she switches over to Bull. I wonder if 
old Red was right—about her an’ Kid Morowitz, 
an’ she was double-crossin’ him, too? Maybe she 
did frame her husband. Ain’t it a hell of a world, 


144 


Without Gloves 


everyone gyppin’ everyone else ? They ain't no one 
on the level but old Red Casey, an’ what's he got?" 
For a long time he stared out into the darkness: 
“I ain't no better’n the rest. I hadn’t ought to 
stood fer Lefty buyin’ the fight. I’d ought to took 
Lottie’s tip, an’ gone in an’ won. It was a crooked 
game all the way through. I was goin’ to gyp 
Morowitz, an’ he beat me to it. An’ now I’m 
broke, all but fourteen dollars, an’ Lefty’s broke, 
an’ the Cap. Gee, he looked like a dead man. He’s 
hit hard. Looks like Morowitz is the only one that 
win on the deal. Him, an’ Bull Larrigan—he gits 
Lottie—but, damn her—he can have her! She’ll 
git him, yet. She gits everyone. Damn women, 
a guy better leave ’em alone if he knows what’s 
good fer him. So that leaves Kid Morowitz the 
only winner—an’ believe me he’s goin’ to have to 
do some swell hidin’ out or Lefty’ll git him. I 
wonder what old Red Casey’ll think when I don’t 
show up no more? Old Red, he wouldn’t bet on a 
framed fight—’’ he paused abruptly, and a slow 
grin twisted his lips. "Why, damn it! He’s got 
his money in his pocket. Maybe he’s the only one 
that win, after all. Anyways, he’s the only one 
that ain’t on the run, or busted, or mixed up with 
a skirt. Maybe Red’s right. I guess most of the 
big ones in the ring has been on the level, at that." 


145 


The Get-Away 

Next day, as the train neared Chicago, Duffy 
bought a newspaper, and turned at once to the 
sport page. There it was in glaring headlines, 

DUFFY QUITS COLD. 

And, beneath, the story of his miserable defeat. 
He read it all, to the last scathing word. His 
cheeks burned as he saw himself panned as no 
fighter had ever been panned before. Why couldn’t 
he have seen what everybody else saw, that had he 
stood up to Morowitz in that fatal eighth round 
he could have won easily. He had seen no signs 
of weakening, only those blazing eyes, and the 
gloves that had so terribly battered his jaw. Oh, 
well, he was yellow. He had known it, and Red 
Casey had known it, and now all the world knew 
it. He would never fight again, could never fight 
again. The mere thought of standing up to an 
opponent made him shudder. Other headlines met 
his eyes. Three columns wide they seemed to leap 
from the page. And again he read his own name. 

MOROWITZ-DUFFY FIGHT FRAMED. 
MOROWITZ FOUND MURDERED IN ROOM 
ON RIVINGTON STREET. 

POLICE CAPTAIN A SUICIDE. 


146 


Without Gloves 


Feverishly Duffy read the whole sordid story as 
told to the reporters by the disgruntled Keen. He 
read of his own disappearance, and the theory that he, 
too, had been mysteriously murdered. And he read 
the attempts of the newspaper men to correlate the 
murder and the suicide with the crooked prize fight. 

When he had finished he laid down the paper and 
stared out the window at the endless succession of 
freight cars, and factories, and the back doors of 
cheap dwelling houses that lined the right of way. 

‘‘So the Kid got his,” he breathed with a shud¬ 
der, as he pictured in his mind’s eye the scene in 
that room on Rivington Street. “An’ I’d got mine, 
too, if I’d stayed. An’ old Red’s the only guy in 
the whole bunch that was on the level. He was the 
only one that worked fer his jack. An’ he’s the 
only guy that ain’t busted or dead. Maybe a man 
ain’t such a fool to work, after all. If you git the 
jack crooked, you always got to keep one jump 
ahead of the pack of crooks that’s tryin’ to git it 
away from you—an’ mostly, you can’t do it. Maybe 
you don’t git so much jack workin’, but what’s the 
use gittin’ a lot of jack together, an’ gittin’ gypped 
out of it? The higher you git, the further you 
fall, an’ the further you fall the harder you hit, an’ 
there y’are.” The train slowed to a stand still. Most 
of the passengers were already in the aisle. 


147 


The Get-Away 

In his hasty flight from the locker room of the 
Bon Ton Club, Duffy had not stopped to put on 
his collar. The car was warm, and picking the 
loud checked coat, and the dilapidated grey sweater 
from the seat beside him, he drew them on over 
his gaudily striped silk shirt. The coach was slowly 
emptying, and as he slipped from his seat, and 
took his place at the end of the procession, his 
eyes dropped once more to the printed page of the 
newspaper that lay where he had dropped it. “They 
think Mike Duffy is dead,” he thought to himself, 
“An’ he is. I never even heard of the guy. Tm 
Shirly Leonard—me. I’m a truck driver. An’ 
I’m lookin’ fer a job.” 

Three or four blocks from the station he entered 
an unpretentious restaurant, and seating himself at 
a stain-clothed table, ordered a steak and a cup of 
coffee. At a small table ranged against the side 
wall of the room a man sat smoking a cigar. He 
was a young man of a type that had become familiar 
to Leonard since his residence on Avenue A. Be¬ 
fore the man sat an empty plate, a handful of 
alleged silverware, and a glass of water. He was 
evidently waiting to be served. The waiter brought 
Leonard’s order, and as he busied himself with the 
food, he noted that two or three others had entered 
the room, and after exchanging glances with the 


Without Gloves 


148 

man at the table, had passed on and disappeared 
through a door in the rear. 

Leonard finished his meal and paid his check. 
The man at the wall table grinned as their eyes 
met, and modulating his voice to an undertone, 
asked: ‘‘Lookin’ fer a little action?” 

Leonard shook his head: “No. Lookin’ fer a 
job. I’m a truck driver.” 

The man winked knowingly: “Sure thing. I’m 
hep. But, say, bo, them there sweater an’ overalls 
rig is nix. Make me? A blind dick could spot 
them classy clothes in under ’em.” 

Leonard nodded, returned the wink and rose 
from the table: “See you later,” he whispered, 
and drawing on his cap, hurried out the door. 

As he walked rapidly down the street he frowned: 
“If I ever see that guy again it’ll be ’cause I can’t 
help it. This here Chicago’s too much like New 
York to suit me. Lefty, he’s got friends in Chi¬ 
cago. Coxy Wesson went clean to Denver, an’ 
they got him. But Coxy showed up around the 
hangouts. I’m goin’ to keep right on goin’ till my 
jack runs out—me.” 

A few blocks farther on he entered the door of 
a dealer in second-hand clothing, and easily effected 
an exchange that netted him a suit of blue serge, 
a couple of cotton shirts, and a soft hat. When 


149 


The Get-Away 

he again merged onto the street he breathed easier. 
He knew that he had been unmercifully cheated in 
the trade, but he was happy. 

From the clothier’s he made straight for the 
railway station and approached the ticket seller: 
“When does yer next train start?” he demanded. 

The man smiled: “Well, there’s one due to pull 
out in about four minutes.” 

“Where to?” 

“St. Paul—Minneapolis.” 

“Give me a ticket!” 

Payment for the ticket reduced his funds to an 
alarming minimum, but he hurried for the train, 
pausing only long enough to buy a later edition of 
a newspaper. 

Not until the train was well under way did 
Leonard turn to his newspaper. The headlines 
brought him up with a jolt. 

POLICE SEEK DUFFY IN PRIZE FIGHT 
MURDER. 

Fear chills alternated with hot waves of anger 
as he read that upon certain information furnished 
by Klingermann, the police had abandoned the 
theory that Duffy had been murdered and his body 
disposed of. Klingermann pointed out that there 


150 


Without Gloves 


was a woman in the case, in this he was substan¬ 
tiated by Bull Larrigan, and later by the woman 
herself, who was none other than Lotta Rivoli, 
alias Dago Lottie, a notorious character of the 
underworld. Under severe cross questioning the 
girl admitted that she had deserted Morowitz for 
Duffy, and that the latter had made repeated threats 
against the life of the Philadelphia boy. “Ain’t 
it hell?” he muttered, between clenched teeth. “If 
they got holt of me, they’d frame me an’ send me 
to the chair, an’ when the guy touched the buzzer, 
they’d laugh. An’ Lottie’s the worst of the bunch! 
Believe me, Bull an’ Lefty’s playin’ with fire. I’ve 
learnt somethin’, I’ll tell the world! I’d drive a 
truckload of dynamite through hell, but I’ll be 
damned if I’ll ever fool with another skirt!” 


CHAPTER XI 


LEONARD GETS A JOB 

In Minneapolis Leonard applied for a job, got 
it, joined the union, and went to work. For four 
weeks he drove one of the Regan Construction 
Company’s big trucks rushing material to the job, 
a huge grain elevator whose battery of twelve cylin¬ 
drical concrete storage bins must rise to the height 
of one hundred feet before October first. Delays 
at the factories, and delays in transportation had 
set the work back so that by the middle of August 
“Young Tom” Regan, the firm’s superintendent of 
construction, was straining every nerve to hurry the 
work along, for the contract carried a heavy for¬ 
feiture clause for non fulfilment. 

A human dynamo, Young Tom was on the job 
twelve hours a day, and spent half the night in the 
office. He drove the men unmercifully and they 
loved him for it. The very force of his person- 


152 


Without Gloves 


ality had them on their toes every minute. He 
was here, there, and seemingly everywhere at once, 
and under his direction the massive grey cylinders 
forced themselves higher and higher into the air. 

It was not long before he noted that Number 
Eight truck, Leonard driving, was hauling one or 
two more loads each day than any other truck on 
the job. A night or two after making this dis¬ 
covery Young Tom casually strolled through the 
garage where the fourteen Regan trucks were 
housed. Number Eight was out on the floor, and 
Leonard was tinkering with the transmission. 

“Trouble?” asked Young Tom, pausing for a 
moment to speak to the figure in grease-smeared 
overalls. 

“Naw,” answered Leonard, wiping his hands on 
a piece of waste. “Just givin’ her a little goin’ 
over. Saves time an’ keeps her tuned up.” Regan 
glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty. Two 
nights later he again passed through the garage, 
and again found Number Eight out on the floor. 
A pair of legs protruded from beneath the truck, 
and Young Tom passed on. 

Saturday evening when Leonard paused before 
the window of the little temporary wooden office 
that had been erected on the job, instead of hand¬ 
ing him his pay envelope, the paymaster indicated 


Leonard Gets a Job 153 

a door with a jerk of his thumb. “Mr. Regan 
wants to see you a minute. In there.” 

Half sullenly, Leonard stepped through the door. 
Young Tom Regan was leaning over a pine table, 
studying a blue print. After a moment he looked 
up: “Well?” he asked, sharply. 

Leonard shifted onto the other foot: “The guy 
there in the window says you want to see me.” 

“Oh, yes—Leonard.” Regan crossed to a desk 
and picked up a slip of paper. It was a pay check, 
and he handed it to Leonard. 

“This yours?” he asked, gruffly. 

Leonard took the paper and nodded. 

“Is it right?” 

The truck driver glanced again at the paper, 
and again he nodded. 

“It ain’t no such a damn’ thing!” Young Tom 
Regan was purposely ungrammatical, as he was 
purposely gruff, in dealing with his men. “Do you 
think we’re here to get somethin’ for nothin’? 
You’re haulin’ more stuff than any man on the job. 
How much time have you spent nights in the 
garage tinkerin’ with that truck? An’ why ain’t 
you turned in any overtime?” 

Leonard shifted uncomfortably: “I didn’t figger 
to turn in no overtime. I like to keep her runnin’ 
sweet, an’ you was in such a hell of a rush 


154 Without Gloves 

with the job, I figgered it would save a little 
time.” 

“What would the boss of the union say if he 
knew it?” 

“My time’s my own after supper. It ain’t no 
one’s business what I do with it,” answered Leonard 
surlily. 

“It’s my business,” snapped Young Tom, “when 
you put it in workin’ on my truck. How long you 
been doin’ it? An’ how many hours have you put 
in?” 

“I don’t know. I ain’t kep’ no track. ’Bout 
three weeks, I guess, every couple nights I slip over 
an’ put in couple hours, maybe sometimes three 
or four.” 

Young Tom figured for a moment with a lead 
pencil, and stepping into the other room, returned 
a few moments later with a check which he handed 
to Leonard. “Guess that’ll about square it,” he 
said. “After this you turn in your overtime. Any¬ 
one that tries to put anything over on me has got 
to get up a damn’ sight earlier in the morning than 
you do.” 

Leonard detected a twinkle in the grey eyes of 
the boss., and as he folded the two checks together 
and placed them in his pocket he grinned, and 
thereafter he turned in his overtime. 


155 


Leonard Gets a Job 

Leonard had been in the habit of attending the 
weekly meetings of his union which with several 
other locals, shared a hall over a barber shop on 
Washington Avenue South. The social equipment 
of the hall consisted of a couple of pool tables, four 
or five card tables, a punching bag, and a few pairs 
of boxing gloves. After the business meeting it 
had been his custom to play a little two-bit Kelly 
pool, or an occasional game of poker. The boxing 
equipment interested him not at all, until one even¬ 
ing he was bantered and badgered into putting on 
the gloves, huge padded affairs covered with sheep¬ 
skin with the woolly side out. His opponent was a 
fellow truck driver, big framed and clumsy, who 
flourished his arms like flails as he lumbered heavily 
about the “ring” that had been chalked on the floor. 
From the very moment the gloves, were fastened, 
Leonard felt a sickening chill at the pit of his 
stomach, and cold fear gripped his heart at the first 
awkward lunge of the man who faced him with a 
loose-jawed grin. Like a flash it came upon him— 
that terrible eighth round. He saw before him not 
the clumsy, muscle-bound amateur, grinning and 
swinging his arms foolishly, but the sinister face 
of Kid Morowitz, the narrowed, bloodshot eyes, the 
lips drawn back in a snarl of hate, and the lithe 
arms that could lash out like lightning, and that 


Without Gloves 


156 

landed with dizzying numbness. Without any 
thought of guarding, the man struck heavily, right 
and left. For a single instant Leonard stood as 
though paralyzed. A huge glove landed against the 
side of his head, more of a push than a blow. He 
staggered slightly, and then raising his arms to 
cover his face, he turned amid jeers and roars of 
laughter, and with the huge gloves of his opponent 
beating and mauling at the back of his head, he 
staggered across the chalk line. 

He accepted the jibes of his fellows surlily, and 
thereafter drew more and more within himself. He 
attended no more meetings of his union. He was 
yellow clean through. He knew it. Everyone else 
knew it. What did it matter? To hell with ’em! 

Came a day when this estimate of others sud¬ 
denly changed. August had slipped into Septem¬ 
ber, and for the first time in months Young Tom 
Regan could see a chance of completing the work 
on schedule time. Factory delays were a thing of 
the past for the very good reason that all the ma¬ 
terial for the completion of the work was in transit, 
and the railways were delivering it with gratifying 
promptitude. But everything must run smoothly. 
Days counted, even hours. An inclined track had 
been constructed to facilitate the handling of cer¬ 
tain material. Switch engines shunted the loaded 


157 


Leonard Gets a Job 

cars to the foot of the incline from which point they 
were handled by means of a winch and wire cable. 

Close beside this spur track, Leonard, his big 
dump truck loaded with sand, awaited his turn to 
unload at the mixer. Two hundred yards away, a 
flat car loaded with heavy steel I-beams was being 
winched up the incline. Close beside his truck a 
gang of twenty or thirty wops were unloading a 
couple of cars of cement onto a covered platform. 
The truck ahead dumped its load and moved oflF 
across the spur. Leonard started his motor, threw 
in his clutch, and as he moved up to the mixer, a wild 
cry sounded from up the track. 

At the sound Young Tom Regan leaped from the 
little wooden office just in time to see the men of 
the mixer crew leap from their platform and take 
to their heels. The clang of the wildly racing gears 
of the winch engine drew his gaze, and in frozen 
horror he saw the flat car gaining momentum with 
each second, racing madly down the incline, hurtling 
its thirty tons of steel directly at the cement cars 
that swarmed with men. A wire cable had parted 
with the car at the very top of the incline! A yell 
of warning froze on his lips as a new horror pre¬ 
sented itself. A truck was just pulling up at the 
mixer, but instead of stopping, it moved past di¬ 
rectly for the crossing! Hadn’t the driver heard 


Without Gloves 


158 

the wild cry of warning, or the shriek of the racing 
gears? Hadn’t he seen the mixer crew quit the 
platform? Possibly he could make the crossing 
ahead of the flying flat, but if anything should hap¬ 
pen. And then, something did happen. Directly 
on the crossing the truck stopped dead still. The 
driver raised in his seat and wrenched at his dump¬ 
ing lever. The body of the truck rose slowly. 
Young Tom Regan closed his eyes. Seconds passed 
—one—two—three. Each seemed a minute—an 
hour. Then it came—the crash. And Young Tom 
opened his eyes and forced his gaze toward the 
scene of the catastrophe. His face paper-white, he 
stared, striving to take in the import of what he 
saw. The big mixer canted at a slight angle where 
the carload of I-beams had knocked out some of 
its underpinning. The car itself was upon its side, 
and beyond it a truck was slowly pulling away from 
the crossing. A few feet beyond a gang of twenty 
or thirty wops crowded the unloading platform and 
swarmed in the doors of the cement cars staring 
stupidly at the derailed car. From all directions 
men were running toward the spot shouting to each 
other in whoops and cheers of sheer relief. Young 
Tom also ran, realizing that his legs felt weak and 
awkward under him, and that he was vainly trying 
to swallow a lump that had risen in his throat. A 


Leonard Gets a Job 159 

moment later he stood at the crossing, a yard boss 
at his side. The man pointed downward: 

“Foor ton av sand, Misther Raygan—foor ton 
av sand on the thrack, an’ foorty ton av ut in th’ 
hear-rt av th’ b’y thot laid ut there! God! Sir, 
av he’d av be’n two siconts later—wan sicont, they’d 
be’n a string av dead wops from here to th’ main 
thrack! An’ a wreck t’would av took two days 
to clean up!” 

‘'Who was it, Clarity? Who drove the truck?” 
The voice of Young Tom Regan sounded very 
gruff, and not quite steady. 

‘‘Who but that Leonard. Th’ Number Eight 
thruck. An’ he’s th’ b’y they’re all sayin’ is yallah. 
Yis sir—yallah! B’cause he wouldn’t stand up an’ 
box wid thim big woolly gloves agin me own son 
Dinny that drives th’ Number Three thruck! Yal¬ 
lah, is ut ? Wait till Oi lay hands on Dinny— 
thim’s his own words—yallah. Oi’ll make um take 
off his hat to Number Eight right here on th’ job, 
or Oi’ll yallah um—wid a crow-bar-r!” 

‘‘Where is Leonard?” asked Regan. 

Fifty pairs of eyes swept the roadway. The 
truck was nowhere in sight. ‘‘Pulled out, Oi guess,” 
answered Clarity. ‘‘Gone back f’r another load— 
seein’ he wasted that’n.” Young Tom joined in the 
laugh that followed, and a few minutes later under 


i6o 


Without Gloves 


his own direction men were busy jacking up the 
mixer platform for new underpinning, removing 
scattered I-beams, and clearing the track of sand. 

At the sound of the loud warning cry, Leonard 
had taken in the situation at a glance. He saw 
the car in its downward plunge from the incline, 
saw the mixer crew leap from the platform, and 
saw that the unloading gang had given no heed to 
the cry. Fully half of the wops would be inside the 
box cars when that car of steel hit! With a vicious 
grinding of gears his truck responded to his action. 
The next moment it was on the track, and he was 
releasing his dumping lever. The sand slid smoothly 
down the steep inclined box, and he started his 
truck just as the flying flat struck the sand pile. 
He saw the load shift with the sudden checking of 
momentum. Saw it shiver as the car wheels left 
the rails, and saw the rear end swing sidewise and 
bring up with a crash against the flying timbers 
of the mixer platform. “It’s a damn’ good thing 
for me that car didn’t tip this way,” he grinned. 
“Maybe I’ve raised hell, but if that load of iron 
had hit them box cars they’d of be’n Dagos smeared 
all over the job.” He glanced backward. Men 
were running toward the spot. He could see Young 
Tom Regan just starting from the office. He 


Leonard Gets a Job 161 

accelerated his speed. “Guess I better give him a 
chanct to cool off a little after he sees what I done 
to his mixer,” he muttered as he disappeared around 
the corner of a lumber pile. 


CHAPTER XII 


IN THE NORTH COUNTRY 

Rumbling northward on Third Avenue South 
with its load of sand, Leonard’s truck was held for 
cross traffic at Fourth Street. As the first two men 
of a little knot of pedestrians stepped from the curb 
to cross the street his grip tightened upon the wheel. 
He knew those faces, Boyle and Barnes, of the New 
York Central Office. Together here as they were 
always together in New York. No one ever saw 
Boyle that Barnes was not at his side. And no one 
ever spoke of Boyle, or Barnes, but always of Boyle 
and Barnes—not two personalities, but a single 
entity, and that entity by far the most feared of all 
police officers by a certain element of New York’s 
underworld. The men crossed the street and turned 
their steps toward the huge granite pile whose tall 
tower reached skyward. As his eyes followed the 
movements of the two men, a furious clanging 
sounded near at hand, and a patrol wagon with its 


In the North Country 163 

complement of uniformed policemen, dashed 
through a granite arch from somewhere in the 
bowels of the huge building. “Court House—jail,” 
thought Leonard, “I wonder what in hell them guys 
is doin’ here?” Then the answer struck him with 
the force of a blow, as he recollected the headlines: 

POLICE SEEK DUFFY IN PRIZE FIGHT 
MURDER. 

The cross traffic had passed. The two officers 
had disappeared within the doors of the building and 
with terror in his heart, he started his truck with a 
jerk. “I wouldn’t have no show,” he mumbled. 
“Lottie, an’ Bull, an’ Lefty’d swear me to the chair!” 

Instead of pulling on to the job with his load of 
sand, Leonard swerved into Second Street, and a 
few blocks farther on drew up to the curb in front 
of the garage where the Regan trucks were housed. 
Then very deliberately, he clambered from the seat, 
glanced swiftly about him, and walked hurriedly 
away. Night found him in an empty box car of a 
Northern Pacific freight train, northward bound, 
while Young Tom Regan was scouring the city in 
an endeavour to locate the driver of his Number 
Eight truck, who was to have started in next morn¬ 
ing as boss truckman. 


164 


Without Gloves 


At the same time, Boyle and Barnes, of the New 
York Central Office, the formalities of their visit to 
the Mill City having been complied with, were com¬ 
fortably seated in the smoking compartment of a 
Pullman on their return journey to the Metropolis. 
Between them sat a certain notorious bond thief 
who had been nabbed by the Minneapolis police 
while trying to dispose of certain securities that had 
been feloniously snatched from the hands of a mes¬ 
senger, a month previous, at the corner of Chambers 
Street and Broadway. 

In the northern part of the state, Old Elija Blod¬ 
gett was clearing the last of the pine from his hold¬ 
ings. Year by year his camps had crept farther and 
farther back from the great river that floated his 
logs to the mills. His problems had been simple, 
easily and cheaply solved by the construction of a 
few more miles of railway each year, upon which 
the logs were hauled and banked on the river. But 
this year would see the last of it. When the Blod¬ 
gett crews should come out of the woods in the 
spring, they would not go into the woods again until 
Blodgett had solved the problem of the “back tract.” 
This “back tract” was a big stretch of timber that 
Old Elija had picked up cheap in the early days— 
twenty million feet of pine, completely surrounded 


In the North Country 165 

by miles and miles of almost impenetrable swamp, 
marsh, and bottomless morass. The construction 
of a railway to reach it would involve nearly ten 
miles of “fill,” and the driving of innumerable piles. 
The construction of a winter road for team hauling 
was impracticable for the reason that even during 
the coldest winters bog and swamp and morass do 
not freeze with any degree of uniformity. The 
saturated muck may freeze to a depth of from two 
to four feet for miles at a stretch, then suddenly 
thin to as many inches or not freeze at all. Blod¬ 
gett’s one hope lay in Wild Goose River, and at the 
mere mention of the name of Wild Goose River 
Old Elija Blodgett would purse his hard lips, clasp 
his bony fingers upon the front of his long black 
coat, and cant his doleful face upward as in prayer. 

On the evening of the third day out from Minne¬ 
apolis, Leonard dropped to the ground as the train, 
with grinding and shrieking of brakeshoes, drew to 
a jarring stop. He was not alone. Since morning 
of the previous day men had been crawling into that 
box car. One here, two or three there, as the train 
stopped to do its switching at little way stations. 
In the yards of a division point, six men had boarded 
the car together. And now of one accord these men 
were leaving the car. Some, like himself, were un¬ 
encumbered with baggage. Others had sacks slung 


Without Gloves 


166 

over their shoulders by ropes or straps. They re¬ 
ferred to these sacks as “turkeys,” and in them, 
Leonard perceived, they carried their belongings. 
He, himself, would have called them kiesters. 

Most of these men were acquaintances, but wheth¬ 
er acquainted or not, the talk was general, and he 
found himself drawn into it, albeit he knew nothing 
whatever of what it was about, except that he 
learned that these men were foregathering at a place 
called Thunder Head, where a man named Blodgett 
was hiring men for his camps. He learned, also, 
that the purpose of these camps was the felling of 
trees, and cutting them into logs. 

On the whole Leonard rather liked these men, 
whose talk was of cross-hauls, and cant-hooks, and 
skid-ways, and tote-roads. They referred to him as 
the “greener,” and when they found out he had no 
definite destination in view, urged him to join on 
with the crew. 

The more he thought of it, the more the idea 
appealed to him. Surely Boyle and Barnes would 
never think of looking for him in a logging camp. 
They probably knew he had been a truck driver, and 
it would be among truck drivers in cities they would 
look for him. So it was that when the train stopped 
at Thunder Head, and the men “piled off,” Leonard 
“piled off” with them. The train started on, and 


In the North Country 167 

as he waited with the others beside the track, to 
allow it to pass, he glanced about him. Nothing— 
absolutely nothing was to be seen in the dusk ex¬ 
cepting the scraggly skyline of low bushy trees 
against the faint afterglow of the sky. “I thought 
you said there was a town here?” he asked of a man 
who stood at his side. 

“Sure they’s a town. It’s on t’other side the 
track.” 

The caboose with its red lights showing bravely 
rattled past, and the town of Thunder Head stood 
revealed in its entirety. It consisted of a single row 
of wooden buildings ranged along one side of a 
muddy street that paralleled the railway track. 
Leonard followed the line of men which straggled 
toward the largest of these buildings. Yellow lamp¬ 
light streamed out at the opening of the door. “Pat 
MacCormack’s hotel,” informed the man who 
trudged beside Leonard. “Use’ to be top loader for 
Blodgett till he got his foot smashed.” 

A gust of rain-laden wind whipped down the 
street, and Leonard lowered his head. The interior 
of the hotel looked cheerful as he ascended the 
wooden steps and scraped the mud from his shoes 
on the iron scraper. Not once in three days and 
two nights had he been really warm, and on the 
hard floor of the bouncing car he had slept miser- 




168 


Without Gloves 


ably. The door closed behind him and he found 
himself in the hotel “office,” a rather large room 
with a huge stove in the middle of the floor, con¬ 
veniently near which was a wooden box half filled 
with tobacco-stained sawdust. In one corner was a 
pine desk that held the register, and a glass cigar 
case whose top had been broken and mended with 
a bolt and a couple of iron washers. Seated on a 
high stool behind this desk, he saw a large, red¬ 
faced man, who greeted most of the newcomers 
familiarly as they scrawled their names on the regis¬ 
ter. 

Leonard hugged the stove in which a roaring fire 
of slabs defied the cold autumn wind. Steam rose 
from his damp denim jumper as the genial warmth 
penetrated to his body. A pile of “turkeys” littered 
the floor in a corner. Other men moved to the stove 
while they waited their turn at the “wash dish,” an 
iron affair that occupied a wooden sink in another 
corner of the room. 

Leonard moved over to the register, the red-faced 
man eyeing him as he wrote his name. 

“Ever work in the woods?” asked the man. 

Leonard shook his head. 

“Tractor man?” 

“Truck driver,” he answered, and the next 
moment could have bitten his tongue off, as 


In the North Country 169 

a vision of Boyle and Barnes flashed through his 
brain. 

“Ut’s all the same, I guess,” the man was saying, 
‘‘I knowed you was some kind of machinery man, 
wid yer overhalls all covered wid grease. Ye’re a 
likely lookin’ lad, fer all yer a greener, an’ Tim 
Neely’ll be after hirin’ ye all right. He Aggers on 
bringin’ in a tractor.” 

“Who’s Tim Neely?” 

“Who, but Old ’Lija Blodgett’s foreman. He’s 
eatin’ his supper in there now. An’ ye better be run- 
nin’ along an’ git yourn. I see Frinchy’s t’rough 
wid the wash dish, an’ be the looks av things you’ll 
be wantin’ to use ut.” The man was laughing, a 
laugh in which Leonard joined, as he gazed at his 
face in the little cracked and warped mirror that 
hung above the sink. Three days’ accumulation of 
soot and cinders had left his face black as a Gold 
Coast negro’s. Again and again, he dumped the 
water from the iron wash dish, and refilled it at the 
pitcher pump. At length he was clean, at least as 
to visible portions of his anatomy, and as the red¬ 
faced man motioned him to the dining room door 
he exclaimed: “Be gobs! Ye’re a white man, after 
all! I thought ye was a nayger!” 

Where the office had been npisy with the babel 
of many voices, the dining room was silent as the 


Without Gloves 


170 

tomb, save for the click and rattle of dishes as the 
men attacked the food. Never, Leonard thought, 
had food tasted so good as he refilled his plate with 
savoury beef stew, baked potatoes, and steaming 
baked beans. One by one, the men finished and 
pushing back their chairs, returned to the office. 
When he joined them, he was accosted by a huge 
giant of a man who addressed him in a high pitched, 
almost squeaky voice that sounded strangely out of 
keeping with his huge bulk: “Pat, here, tells me 
you’re a tractor hand.” 

Leonard would liked to have denied that he knew 
anything whatever about any kind of machinery, 
but he had already admitted his vocation to the hotel 
keeper, and besides, he reasoned swiftly, there were 
thousands of truck drivers, and it was extremely 
unlikely that Boyle and Barnes would ever penetrate 
to such an out of the way corner of the world as 
Thunder Head. “Don’t even know what a tractor 
is,” he replied, “I’ve drove a truck.” 

“Same thing, I guess,” answered the man. “I don’t 
know nothin’ about ’em neither. Someone’s talked 
the Old Man into tryin’ one out this winter. Claims 
they’ll do the work of three or four teams. Mebbe 
they will, but wait till the snow gits belly-deep to 
a gyraft, an’ then see where this here tractor’ll be 
at. But we won’t worry none about that. He ain’t 


In the North Country 171 

goin’ to ship the tractor till the tote-road’s built, an’ 
if it don’t work when it gits here I kin put you at 
somethin’ else. Ever work in the woods?” 

“No” 

“Well, yer husky lookin’, an’ you kin learn. But 
you can’t go in with no such an outfit’s that.” The 
man indicated Leonard’s clothing with a bob of the 
head. “Come on over to the store an’ we’ll rig you 
out an’ charge it up agin yer wages. We won’t have 
no time to fool with it in the mornin’. I want to 
pull out by daylight.” 

The teams were at the door next morning just as 
the first streak of dawn greyed the east. The cold, 
rain-laden wind of the previous day had shifted into 
the southwest, and before it the clouds scudded in 
thick, ragged masses. Thirty-six men, all told, 
climbed onto the big wagons which had been loaded 
the day before with the necessary camp impedimenta, 
boxes and barrels of food, bales of hay, and sacks of 
oats, kegs of nails, saws, axes, cant-hooks, and 
chains. Leonard found himself seated upon his 
brand new turkey on top of a load of baled hay. 
Beside him sat the boss at whose high pitched word 
of command, the teamster clucked to his horses and 
the ponderous animals moved off, their feet splash¬ 
ing noisily in the well churned mud of the roadway. 
The other teams fell in behind, and at the edge of 


Without Gloves 


172 

town the driver swung into a narrower road that 
wound in and out through the stumps and scrub of 
the pine barrens. 

“This road ain’t so muddy,” observed Leonard, 
as the boss lighted his pipe and settled himself for 
the journey. 

“ ’Tain’t never muddy off’en the clay,” explained 
the boss, “Didn’t you see them stumps around 
Thunder Head was all hardwood? Wherever they’s 
a clay ridge you find hardwood, an’ when you git 
down onto the sand the pine begins.” 

Leonard grinned: “I don’t know hardwood from 
any other kind. This is the first time I’ve ever been 
in the woods.” 

“You ain’t in no woods yet. You don’t call this 
here cut-over woods, do you? Wait till you git into 
the big sticks. See all them stumps? A few years 
ago they was all trees—pretty a stand of timber as 
a man’d want to see—an’ now look at it!” The man 
swept the horizon with a wave of the arm. “Nothin’ 
but scrub oak, an’ popple, an’ soft maple, with a few 
jack pine patches throw’d in here an’ there. It’s a 
damn’ shame, that’s what it is. The country’s goin’ 
plumb to hell!” 

The man elapsed into wrathful silence, and 
Leonard pondered his words. Here was something 
he did not understand. He stared out over the scrub 


173 


In the North Country 

with its sprinkling of greying stumps that once were 
lordly trees. Here was a man taking a crew into 
the woods to cut down trees, and at the same time 
was angrily denouncing the cutting of trees. 

The sun burst out through a great rift in the 
clouds and Leonard stared spellbound at the blaze of 
colour that surrounded him. The whole country as 
far as the eye could reach flamed with crimson and 
gold, relieved here and there by the dark green of 
a jack pine thicket or a spruce swamp. There was 
a tang in the air that he drew deeply into his lungs. 
He felt strangely thrilled. New York seemed very 
far away—and he was glad. Something within 
himself seemed seeking to expand, seemed groping 
to comprehend the vastness of the gold and crimson 
waste. 

With a heavy rattling of wheels the wagon jolted 
over the corduroy where the road crossed an out- 
reaching arm of a spruce swamp. A rabbit hopped 
lazily from the roadway ahead of the horses, and a 
covey of grouse disappeared into the thicket with 
a noisy whirring of wings. 

Leonard was conscious of a vast sense of well¬ 
being. Unconsciously he stretched the muscles of 
his arms. He was glad to be alive—glad that he was 
right here. For the first time in his life he thrilled 
to the simple fact of living. Unconsciously this man 


174 


Without Gloves 


who had known only cities, had fallen madly in love 
with the wild country. Love at first sight—and the 
wild country claimed him for her own. He knew 
nothing—understood nothing of the wild country. 
Her secrets were to him a closed book. But he 
would know! He would open the book and would 
glut himself with her lore. Leonard glanced at the 
boss who sat staring out over the cut-over. Here 
was a man who knew the wild country. 

“But, the trees’ll grow up again,” he ventured, 
as much to himself, as to the other. 

“Never in Christ’s Kingdom, they won’t!” ex¬ 
ploded the boss. “They won’t let ’em! They can’t 
see ahead of their nose. They ain’t got no 
sense!” 

“Who won’t let ’em? An’ why won’t they?” 

“The State, the timber owners—no one. The 
whole damn’ mess of ’em ain’t got no sense. Fire— 
that’s what keeps the timber down. Keep the fire 
out an’ the pine’ll come back. Look all around you. 
See over there, an’ there—them tall trees scattered 
through the scrub. Them’s pines—Norway an’ 
white, that for some reason was left when they 
logged this stretch. Some was holler-butted, an’ 
some too small to cut an’ was lucky enough not to 
git swamped out, or busted down. Most anywheres 
in the cut-over you can find them scatterin’ trees. 


In the North Country 175 

Them trees grows cones an’ scatters seed, an’ the 
seed takes root an’ starts young pines. Then what 
happens? A dry spell comes along an’ some train 
scatters hot cinders, or drops hot coals out of the 
fire box, or some fool lights his pipe an’ throws 
down the match, or throws his cigarette butt into 
the dry leaves, or some other fool builds a camp 
fire an’ goes away an’ leaves it fer the wind to 
scatter all over hell, an’ it ain’t long till they’s a 
runnin’ fire spreadin’ out through the brush. 

“If it was a fire in the big timber the hull damn’ 
country would turn out to fight it. The timber 
owners, an’ the State would rush all the men in they 
could git holt of. Why? ’Cause timber is dollars, 
an’ they kin see the dollars burn. 

“But let a fire start in the cut-over an’ what hap¬ 
pens? A ranger or two will come along an’ if they 
kin find a handy place they’ll fight it a little. If it 
heads fer some settler’s farm he’ll git out and beat 
it out. But the rest of the country sees the smoke 
an’ they say, ‘Nothin’ but a bresh fire. Let her burn. 
It can’t do no harm.’ And the little pines, one, or 
two, or mebbe three year old, that’s started from the 
seeds that’s blowed around off’en them left-over 
trees is burnt up or scarred so they won’t never 
amount to nothin’—an’ there y’are. That’s the main 
reason they ain’t no timber growin’ on the cut-over 


176 Without Gloves 

—that, an’ the timber owners bein’ such damn’ 
hogs.” 

“Hogs ? What’s that got to do with it ?” Leonard, 
drinking in every word the boss uttered, found 
himself thirsting for more. 

“It’s got a hell of a lot to do with it,” answered 
the boss, biting the corner from a plug of tobacco, 
“ ’Spose they’d of logged right to start out with, 
what then ? They wouldn’t be no cut-over. They’d 
still be cuttin’ timber, an’ good timber, on the first 
land they ever worked. Timber wasn’t all started 
the same year. They’s big trees, an’ trees from 
them on down to ones you can’t see less’n you’re 
lookin’ fer ’em. Instead of cuttin’ everythin’ they 
could lay a saw to an’ swampin’ out, an’ smashin’ 
down the rest, they’d of used common sense, an’ 
kep’ takin’ only the good stuff as it come along, an’ 
takin’ care of the young stuff, they’d of had a crop 
cornin’ on every year. 

“The first man that started out to cut timber said 
how they was enough timber in his patch to last the 
hull world forever, an’ every man that’s cut timber 
sence has said the same thing an’ run hog-wild an’ 
cut an’ swamped, an’ tore, an’ slashed, an’ gutted 
till they wasn’t nothin’ left but the sand it grow’d in. 
An’ they call that business!” 

Neely’s voice had grown more high-pitched than 


In the North Country 177 

usual, and he finished with a ludicrous squeak— 
that is, it would have been ludicrous if the younger 
man had noticed, but he was too intent on the man’s 
words to note the tone of his voice. 

“But, in this camp we’re goin’ to work different, 
eh? Only take the best of it?” 

The boss favoured him with a scowl: “Hell, no! 
We’re a-goin’ to do it just like we’ve always done it. 
Git everything that’ll make a log, an’ bust down the 
rest. That’s Old ‘Lij’ Blodgett’s way.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


blodgett's number eight 

On the edge of the “big sticks/’ as Neely had 
called the standing timber, a temporary camp of 
tents was set up, and under the directions of the 
boss all hands set to work building the winter camp. 
While half the crew felled trees and swamped out 
a level space well within the shelter of the big timber, 
where a swift running creek burbled noisily over the 
stones of its tortuous bed, the other half, together 
with the teamsters, was sent some five or six miles 
into the cut-over to wreck the buildings of last year’s 
camp known as Number Seven, and haul the lumber 
to the clearing. 

A week later the new camp stood completed, bunk 
house, cook shack, and stables, presenting a curious 
striped and patched appearance due to the fact that 
no attention had been paid to placing the boards 
weathered side out, the amateur carpenters nailing 
them into place as they came to hand. 

178 



Blodgett’s Number Eight 179 

Tents were struck, and the men moved into the 
buildings where roaring stoves, and great swinging 
lamps gave promise of comfort in the short cold days 
to come. 

During this first week, Shirly Leonard worked 
with the eyes of the boss upon him. Something 
about the “greener” attracted big Tim Neely. It 
was not that the younger man’s work was in any 
way conspicuous, for every man on the job was 
giving the job all he had in him. But Neely sensed 
that here was one who instinctively loved the woods 
as he himself loved them. 

“It’s hell, ain’t it?” said the greener after supper 
one evening when the boss came upon him seated 
beside the noisily babbling creek. 

“What’s hell?” asked Neely, curiously. 

“Why, that guys like us—like you an’ me, an’ 
maybe some of the rest that likes the woods, an’ 
likes to be in ’em, an’ all that, has got to help cut 
’em down. 7 never saw woods before, but I’d ruther 
be here than anywheres I ever was at.” 

Neely nodded, slowly: “Yes, that’s hell. But, 
if it wasn’t us, it would be someone else. When 
you come to think about it, the only job a man 
kin git that takes him into the woods is tearin’ ’em 
down—that is, a man like me that ain’t got no eggi- 
cation to speak of.” 


i8o 


Without Gloves 


“What's that got to do with it?” asked Leonard. 

“Well, the Government's got what they call 
National Forests. It's a mighty good thing, 'cause 
believe me, they'll be the only forests left in a few 
years. Men that gets jobs on them is tryin’ to build 
up, instead of tear down. But they won’t take on 
no one like me, that’s worked in the timber all his 
life, an’ don’t know nothin’ but timber. They want 
men that’s got book eggication an’ kin tell if it was 
Abraham Lincoln or General Jackson that crossed 
the Delaware, an’ how far is it to the moon an’ back. 
The State’s kind of beginnin’ to piddle around along 
them lines, too, but I guess they’ll be wantin’ the 
same kind of men.” 

“Wish I knew as much about the woods as you 
do,” said Leonard, and the boss detected a half-wist¬ 
ful note in the voice. “Do you know that up to the 
time I got off that freight back there at Thunder 
Head, I didn’t know there was such places in the 
world. A man kind of feels different with these 
here big trees all around him.” 

“You bet he feels different!” exclaimed the boss, 
“You keep your eyes open, an’ I’ll learn you all I 
kin. I know’d the timber’d got you. You ain’t 
never goin’ out of the woods no more’n what I am 
—leastways, not till they’re all cut down.” 

Leonard grinned: “An’ by that time maybe they’ll 


Blodgett’s Number Eight 181 

git some guy runnin’ these here forests that won’t 
give a damn who crossed Delaware, or how far the 
moon is just so it’s far enough not to knock the tops 
off the big trees. Then maybe he’ll give us a job 
makin’ the cut-over look like this.” He indicated 
the mighty pines with a sweep of his arm. 

Neely shook his head: “Some day the Minnesota 
cut-over will look like this agin—but me an’ you’ll 
never see it, son. The State’ll wake up, some day— 
when it gits a few million acres of this here cut¬ 
over dumped back on its hands fer taxes. It ain’t 
fit fer farmin’. There’s only one answer—timber. 
We’ll see the start of it, but we’ll never see the big 
sticks. An’ in the meantime maybe we’re boostin’ 
the game by doin our’ damnedest to help jest such 
birds as old ‘Lij’ Blodgett to git rid of what’s left 
of the virgin stand. The sooner it’s gone, the sooner 
the State will wake up to its job.” 

With the completion of the camp the work of the 
woods began. A log road, skid roads, cross-hauls, 
and loading dump were swamped out. A tie crew 
was set to work and everything that wouldn’t make 
a log was rough-hewn into ties. 

Into the midst of these activities came old Elija 
Blodgett, himself. And with him came men who 
carried transits and levels and long rods painted 
alternately with red and white. Pending the arrival 


Without Gloves 


182 

of the tractor, Leonard had been assigned to the 
swamping crew and on the morning of Blodgett’s 
arrival big Tim Neely paused to watch the younger 
man lop the limbs from a tree felled by the saw¬ 
yers. 

“Don’t never bring yer ax down with yer leg 
where it’s at!” he exclaimed, seizing the razor-sharp 
double-bitted ax from Leonard’s hand, “This here 
is the most dangerous tool used by man. They’s 
be’n more men hurt with it than has be’n hurt by 
all the bullets ever fired on American soil. S’pose, 
now, that limb you was choppin’ had be’n cut deeper 
than what you thought it was, or s’pose it was hol¬ 
ler, or rotten on the under side so the ax would of 
went through it like a piece of cheese. With yer leg 
where it was at, it would have sunk into it to the 
bone. They’s two things you got to remember 
when you’re swingin’ an ax, the first is where’s yer 
legs at! An’ the second is what’s behind you an’ 
over yer head. Many a man’s be’n hurt by havin’ 
his ax ketch over a limb or a piece of bresh when he 
makes his swing-” 

“Wasting time, Neely—wasting time!” Both 
men turned to meet the doleful face of Elija Blod¬ 
gett which regarded them from the depths of his 
fur collar. “I can’t afford to pay foreman’s wages 
for the personal instruction of every green hand 



Blodgett’s Number Eight 183 

that comes into the woods. Men learn faster by ex¬ 
perience, Neely. And they have reason to remember 
what they learn.’’ The pale blue, watery eyes were 
not upon the face of the men, but upon the tree, 
scaling its log measure in feet. 

“This here’s the tractor man, Mr. Blodgett,” ex¬ 
plained the boss. “The tractor ain’t here yet, an’ 
I put him to swampin’. I didn’t want him to git 
laid up, ’cause there ain’t no one else on the job 
that could handle the damn’ thing-” 

“No profanity, Neely! I do not tolerate it in my 
camps.. Remember the Lord’s injunction to let your 
conversation be yea, yea, and nay, nay.” 

“Jest a manner of speakin’, Mr. Blodgett. No 
harm meant. But, as I was goin’ on to say, when 
this here yea yea nay nay machine gits here, we 
got to have a man with two legs in under him to 
run it.” 

“The tractor is being unloaded and set up at 
Thunder Head today. I see you have the camp com¬ 
pleted and a few ties out. Well and good as far as 
you have gone. But I wish you had more ties. I 
brought in the surveyors to extend the railroad from 
Number Seven to this camp, which will be known 
as Number Eight. There is another crew at Thun¬ 
der Head unloading the horses and supplies for 
Number Nine-” 



Without Gloves 


184 

“Number Nine!” exclaimed Neely, in surprise, 
“You goin’ to run two camps ?” 

“Yes. Number Nine will be located on the north¬ 
west forty, and I want you to put a crew to work 
at once building a log road to connect that camp 
with this. The road will serve also as a supply road 


“Ain’t you goin’ to run the railroad on up to this 
here new camp?” 

“No, no!” exclaimed Blodgett, impatiently. 
“The tractor will haul Number Nine’s logs to the 
railhead which will be here. The expense of con¬ 
struction would be unwarranted.” 

“How about it when the snow gits four foot deep 
on the level?” asked the boss, “What’s this here 

d- double yea an’ nay tractor goin’ to do 

then?” 

“I am assured that with the aid of a snow plow 
the tractor will keep its own road open. The dis¬ 
tance will be only about three miles.” 

“An’ I’ve got to run both camps? Kind of a 
walkin’ boss outfit ?” 

“No. I have employed a foreman for Number 
Nine. The man is Samuel King-” 

“Sam King! Hell’s bells—er church bells, I 
should say, I s’pose. Sam King was foreman for 
Peters & Halverson, an’ it was him worked out the 





Blodgett’s Number Eight 185 

scheme where Peters & Halverson stoled old Jack 
McClung’s timber, an’ mint him.” 

“There, that will do, Neely!” The voice of Blod- 
gett was icy. “What you say is mere hearsay, and 
should not be repeated. Peters & Halverson are 
doubtless very honorable men. The grand jury 
ignored this matter you speak of when it was 
brought before it-” 

“Yes, because they was greased!” exploded Neely* 
“It ain’t no hearsay, Mr. Blodgett, that old Jack Mc- 
Clung is broke—an’ him as square a man as ever 
lived—an’ the money that his logs fetched is in 
Peters & Halverson’s pockets!” 

“Tut, tut, Neely,” said Blodgett, sternly, “I did 
not come here to discuss business ethics with you* 
You are to concern yourself merely with getting out 
the logs. I want every foot of timber on this tract at 
the mills by spring.” 

“I figgered it would take two years.” 

“And so it would with only one camp. That is 
the reason I am putting in another. The price of 
lumber has begun to rise. The war in Europe which 
started in July has created a demand for American 
lumber. War is deplorable—extremely deplorable 
and unchristian it seems to us in our limited under¬ 
standing of the works of the Lord.” The eyes 
rolled sanctimoniously upward, “My heart bleeds for 



Without Gloves 


186 

the poor fellows whose lives are being snuffed out 
by the hundreds, by the thousands even, if reports 
are to be believed. But it is the Lord's will.” The 
glitter of greed was in the eyes that returned to rest 
on the log on the ground and the ring of greed was 
in the voice: “But lumber prices are soaring. The 
trade is stimulated to astounding activity, and if the 
United States should be drawn into the conflict, as 
some people are predicting, lumber will go to un¬ 
heard of figures!” 

“An' if we do git in,” cried Neely, “You kin hunt 
up someone else to run yer camp, 'cause believe me, 
if them da—them yea yea nay nay yah yah Dutch¬ 
mens think they kin lick the old U. S. they got me 
to lick along with the rest!'' 

“Him an' I, both!” cried Leonard. 

“There, there,” conciliated Blodgett. “Doubtless 
there will be no need for us to interfere. At least 
there is no tendency as yet on the part of the ad¬ 
ministration to become embroiled in any way. But, 
we’re wasting time, and time is precious. Get a crew 
onto the new log road until King's men get here, 
and you, tractor man, are to return with me to 
Thunder Head, and run the tractor out.” 

Days of Herculean activity followed the visit of 
Elija Blodgett to Number Eight camp. Neely's 
crew was doubled. Sam King took over the building 


Blodgett’s Number Eight 187 

of the log road, and Neely’s men were divided be¬ 
tween the grading of the railroad, and the getting 
out of ties. 

With the arrival of the tractor, Shirly Leonard 
assumed a definite place in the moil of the camp’s 
activities. Prior to Blodgett’s visit he had been 
simply the “greener”—a raw hand, ignorant of the 
things those about him had known from babyhood; 
doing slowly and badly work that others did swiftly 
and well. Fair game for the facetious, and a fair 
butt for many a rude prank and jest—pranks and 
jests that were without the sting of malice, however, 
for his unfailing good natured acceptance of the 
order of things early won the respect of the camp. 
“Go to it,” he would grin, when the roars of laughter 
had subsided that greeted his return from some pre¬ 
posterous errand, “Have yer fun while yer can. I 
won’t always be a greener.” For his attitude of 
good natured acceptance of his lot, big Tim Neely 
was largely responsible. When the camp was but 
two days old, Leonard had hurried up to the boss 
who was directing the placing of a load of lumber 
for the bunk house, with the request that a dozen 
cross-hauls be sent at once to Jake Loomis who was 
at w'ork on the log road. The big boss smiled. 
“They’ve started in on you, have they? Well, let 
’em have their fun. They went through it their- 


i88 


Without Gloves 


selves, an’ so did I. A cross-haul, son, is a road that 
runs back into the timber for team-loadin’ the logs 
on to the skidways or the cars. You’ll git sent on a 
lot of fool trips like this before you learn. But 
don’t git mad. It’s their way of jokin’. You’ll be 
sent from one to the other to borrow left handed 
wedges, an’ cant-hook keys, an’ knothole covers, 
an’ safety bits fer axes, an’ the Lord knows whatnot. 
They’ll generally be a bunch of ’em together when 
you come back an’ they’ll give you the laugh. Let 
’em go. Laugh along with ’em, an’ it won’t be long 
before they’ll git tired of it. Remember whatever 
you do, don’t git mad. You’ll learn.” 

Leonard laughed: “Say, boss, when you come to 
think of it, who’s the joke on, anyhow?” 

“Why, I guess the joke’s on you, but-” 

“Not in a hundred years it ain’t. It’s on the man 
that’s payin’ me my wages. It’s his time I’m wastin’, 
not mine. The way I figger it, a little runnin’ 
around on another man’s time is a cheap price to pay 
fer an eggication.” 

“Guess that’s right,” grinned the boss, “Better 
never tell that to old ‘Lij’ Blodgett, though. ’Cause 
he don’t think no more of a dollar than what I do 
of my right hand.” So Leonard had returned to 
Jake Loomis, who with a half dozen swampers was 
at work at the head of the log road, and joined 



Blodgett’s Number Eight 189 

heartily in the laugh that was not wholly on himself 
when he reported that the cook didn’t have the cross¬ 
hauls out of the oven yet. Many such errands he 
ran in the days that followed, and more than once 
to the huge delight of the onlookers, he was able to 
turn the laugh upon his would-be tormentor. 

In the evenings beside the roaring stove he would 
sit and listen by the hour while men talked. Stories 
of drives, of adventure, and misadventure in the 
woods and upon the rivers were told with simple 
directness, interrupted and embellished by oaths of 
approval at the recounting of some mighty feat of 
strength, or of skill, or of endurance that had be¬ 
come a Northland epic. Stories these men had 
heard a hundred times were new and wonderful to 
Leonard, and the words of the tellers of tales sank 
deep within him, so that his heart thrilled at the 
deeds of the super-men of timber-land. But, not 
all the tales were of deeds heroic. Accounts of 
brutish debauches were told shamelessly even boast- 
ingly by the men who had taken part in them. 

Old Mort Mooney would hold forth for an hour 
at a time concerning the doings of the mighty Paul 
Bunion, the mythical logger. Stories, these, half- 
humorous, half-serious, wholly preposterous, half- 
believed by the lumberjacks, half scoffed at, but 
eagerly listened to in the camps from Maine to Cali- 


190 


Without Gloves 


fornia until the deeds of Paul Bunion, and Little 
Babe, his ox that was four ax handles wide between 
the eyes, of the Tie Cuttin’ Finn, and the Big Swede, 
have assumed the dignity of a folk-lore. 

And as he listened, Leonard found himself com¬ 
paring—rather contrasting, these men with the men 
who had been his associates in Union Market pre¬ 
cinct—the men of the underworld. For many nights 
he pondered, and then gave it up. 4 ‘It’s like a big 
river—life is,” he decided one day as he stood beside 
the Wild Goose and watched its waters go tumbling 
down through the gorge. “Up here it runs smooth 
an’ quiet for long stretches, an’ then again it jumps 
into roarin' white-water an' boilin' eddies. There’s 
dangers all right, the rapids an' the eddies, but a 
man can see ’em, an’ he can take ’em, or let ’em 
alone. But back there—it slips along slick, an’ oily, 
an’ innocent lookin’ on top, but below it’s black— 
undertows an’ cross-currents. A man never knows 
where he’s at, or who’s his friends,” and he shud¬ 
dered as he thought of Kid Morowitz. “Not one 
square guy from de cops up—an’ the molls is worse 
than the men. Not one of ’em ever had his mitts on 
an honest dollar—an’ I was as bad as the rest— 
huntin’ easy money, an’ didn’t care how I got it. 
Believe me easy money ain’t the kind that sticks to 
a guy. Take Mr. Regan—he’s got more jack than 


Blodgett’s Number Eight 191 

any of them crooks, an’ he ain’t huntin’ no easy 
money. He works fer his—works harder than any 
man on the job. An’ he’s square. I didn’t know 
there was anyone would go out of his way to pay 
a guy more’n he know’d he had cornin’. Kind of 
watchin’ a man like him a guy damn’ soon learns it 
pays to work, an’ it pays to be on the level, too.” 

Leonard’s ride to Thunder Head with Blodgett in 
the rear seat of the garage man’s wheezing, stutter¬ 
ing flivver served to vastly increase his respect for 
men like young Tom Regan, and Tim Neely. 

His familiarity with the mechanism of trucks 
simplified the garage man’s task of explaining the 
manipulation of the tractor, so that the following 
morning Leonard pulled out of Thunder Head at 
the rear of the procession of teams that carried the 
men and supplies for Number Nine camp. 

With the arrival of the tractor at Number Eight 
the foolish pranks at Leonard’s expense ceased. 
Even Rene Brebout, the big Frenchman, who had 
been the most persistent of the jokers accorded him 
a certain respect. For he was a man who could do 
a thing that no other, not even the boss, could do. 
The men voiced open approval at the ease and skill 
with which this greener handled the machine that 
could do the work of many teams. “Paul Bunion, 
she haf’ to git de bigger ox dan Leetle Babe for beat 


192 


Without Gloves 


de dam’ trac’,” exclaimed Brebout, as the machine 
trundled off for the railhead hauling four big loads 
of ties. 

The three-mile log road to Number Nine was 
finished, and the railroad completed to Number 
Eight’s banking ground before snow flew, and the 
real work of the camps began. These were slack 
days for Leonard whose work would come with the 
snow when his tractor should haul the wide bunked 
sleds loaded high with their pyramids of logs from 
Number Nine to the loading ground at the railhead. 
Under the boss’s tutelage he learned to scale logs, 
and from the skidders learned many a trick of chain 
and travois, and the use of the big wheels. He found 
unfailing fascination in watching the mighty pines 
crash to earth as the sawyers “laid ’em down” 
with the precision of long practice. At Neely’s sug¬ 
gestion he hunted, and many a meal of fresh venison 
was due to his persistence in stalking deer. And it 
was upon one of these hunting excursions that, 
having wandered farther from camp than usual he 
met Mary MacAlister—met her while the memory 
of the perfidy of Lotta Rivoli still rankled. 


CHAPTER XIV 

MARY MACALISTER 

Picking his way across the river on a wind-fall, 
Leonard threaded a tamarack swamp and came out 
on the other side onto a strip of ploughed land. It 
was a narrow strip, possibly two rods wide that fol¬ 
lowed the contour of the swamp in either direction 
as far as he could see. His attention centred, how¬ 
ever, not on the cleared strip, but beyond, where a 
veritable thicket of young pine banked fresh and 
green against the background of larger trunks. 

Crossing the cleared strip he pushed his way into 
the thicket of young stuff that fringed the edge of 
the forest. His search for deer was forgotten as he 
walked slowly among the big trees that towered 
above him, their high-flung branches spreading an 
even shade over the whole forest floor. Stumps 
here and there showed where timber had been re¬ 
moved, old stumps, and stumps from which the 
trees had been cut at a comparatively recent date. 


193 


194 


Without Gloves 


The trees had all been cut close to the ground, leav¬ 
ing a low clean stump, and no waste timber. 

Leonard’s eyes swept the forest. Nowhere was 
visible any broken or twisted, or crippled young 
stuff, nor any dead or leaning trees. If young 
trees had been crippled by the fall of a big one they 
had been removed, leaving the ground clear for the 
young stuff yet to come. Every tree in sight, young 
or old, was a good tree. He seated himself on a 
stump and mentally compared this clean-floored 
forest tract with the Blodgett cuttings, where a mass 
of tangled slash and twisted and maimed young stuff 
marked the wake of the sawyers. 

A blur of motion caught his eye, and he reached 
swiftly for the rifle that lay against the stump at 
his side, but as his hand touched the gun, his muscles 
relaxed. The moving thing was a person walking 
slowly through the forest subjecting the trees to 
close scrutiny. Pausing before a huge pine the per¬ 
son submitted the trunk to minute examination, and 
retreating to about the distance from the base at 
which the top would come to earth, half-circled the 
tree, apparently studying the ground. Then, walk¬ 
ing deliberately to the trunk, proceeded to notch it. 

Leonard could see the white wood show as the 
ax bit in and the chips flew. “Good hand with an 
ax for a light built man,” he muttered as, picking 


195 


Mary MacAlister 

up his rifle, he started leisurely toward the chopper. 
“Knows his business, too,” he added, as he noted 
that the notch was so placed as to throw the tree 
clear of a group of young pines. He paused a few 
feet distant, a dry twig snapping loudly beneath his 
feet, just as the last chip flew from the notch. In¬ 
stantly the chopper whirled to face him. Leonard's 
jaw dropped and seconds passed as he stared in open- 
mouthed astonishment. He was looking straight 
into the eyes of a girl! For one swift instant his 
glance swept from the dark violet eyes that regarded 
him in surprise as evident as his own, to the checked 
shirt, the grey woollen trousers with their legs thrust 
into high laced boots, and the soft felt hat. Then 
his gaze centred once more upon the eyes of violet. 
The girl was the first to speak: “Who are you?” she 
asked, “And what are you doing here in the timber?” 
Leonard noted that there was neither friendliness 
nor hostility in the tone. 

He answered: “I was huntin’. I come through 
the swamp from the river.” 

“We don’t like to have people hunt here. We’ve 
never posted the timber because so few come.” 

“I didn’t shoot none of yer deers,” he answered, 
rather sullenly. “I didn’t see none to shoot. I ain’t 
be’n huntin’ any for the last hour. I be’n lookin’ 
over the timber.” 


196 


Without Gloves 


“Looking over the timber!” cried the girl, “What 
do you mean ? Who sent you here ? The timber is 
not for sale.” 

Leonard’s forehead puckered into a frown: “How 
do you git that way, kid ?” he said, contemptuously, 
“What you tryin’ to hand me? If you was tryin’ 
to sell this timber fer a song I couldn’t do nothin’ but 
croak. Do I look like a guy that could buy timber ?’’ 
He paused and drawing a long face, rolled his eyes 
upward, “I ain’t got no fur coat to look out over 
the collar of, an’ I don’t believe in smashin’ down 
the little trees takin’ out big ones, an’ I ain’t playin’ 
the Lord fer a side-kick.” 

“Blodgett!” cried the girl, breaking into a peal of 
laughter. Leonard noted that laugh. It was deep, 
full-throated, genuine. 

“Yup,” he answered, “He might want to buy it, 
not me.” 

“He does want to buy it. But we—we’ll never 
sell to him!” 

“If it was mine,” grinned Leonard, “an’ old Blod¬ 
gett wanted it, I’d be damn’ glad the big end of it 
was stuck in the ground. This timber wouldn’t look 
like it does now after he’d put a crew into it. At 
that, though, I guess he’s got the jack.” 

The girl regarded him with a puzzled smile: “I 
don’t know what you mean. You ask me what I 


197 


Mary MacAlister 

am trying to hand you, and I was not trying to hand 
you anything. And you ask how I get this way, 
and talk about a ‘guy/ and 'side-kick,’ and ‘jack.’ 
You talk funny. I don’t understand.” 

“What do you mean—funny?” asked Leonard in 
surprise, “Where was you raised? I’m talkin’ 
straight American. Funny—you’d ought to hear 
some of them guys over to camp spiel it off— 
Frenchy Brebout, an Torger Bjorson, an’ Micky 
O’Toole, an’ Sandy McTabb. When they all git to 
goin’ at onct it sounds like hell broke loose fer re¬ 
cess.” 

“What camp is that?” laughed the girl. 

“Old Blodgett’s Number Eight.” 

“You work for Blodgett!” exclaimed the girl, 
“And you do not like him?” Leonard saw that the 
smile had left her lips, and she was looking straight 
into his eyes as though to fathom his innermost 
thought. 

“Yup. Tractor man. Waitin’ fer the snow so I 
can begin haulin’ the logs down from Number 
Nine.” 

“But, you do not like him?” she persisted. 

“He’d make a swell con-man.” 

The girl shook her head in resignation. “It is no 
use,” she answered, with a shrug, “Half the time 
I do not know what you are talking about.” 


198 


Without Gloves 


Leonard laughed—a frank, boyish laugh that was 
in every way understandable, and good to hear: “Say 
kid, we don’t make each other at all, but sometime 
we will. The only molls I ever knew was gold dig¬ 
gers, right. They was go-gitters, all dolled up, an’ 
playin’ both ends from the middle. They was shift¬ 
ers, an’ dips, an’ bag-openers, an’ stone-gitters, an’ 
all of ’em was snow-birds, an hop-heads, an’ rum- 
hounds. They was out fer the jack, an’ believe me, 
they got it. An’ if they ever wore men’s clothes it 
was ’cause they was hidin’ out from the bulls. But, 
you, kid—you’re different. You wouldn’t double- 
cross a guy, would you ?” 

The girl laughed: “I don’t understand a thing 
you’ve been talking about,” she answered. “But, 
tell me, you have not been long in the woods?” 

“No, not long. Up to the time we started buildin’ 
Number Eight I hadn’t never seen no timber in my 
life.” 

“Never saw any timber!” cried the girl, “Where 
in the world did you come from?” 

For just an instant Leonard hesitated. “Gyp- 
ville,” he answered, solemnly. 

“Gypville? I never even heard of it. And, there 
is no timber ? Not even scrub ?” 

“Nope, not even scrub. Just folks.” 

“And, you’ve lived there all your life?” 


199 


Mary MacAlister 

‘‘Well, not yet. The part of it I’ve lived is best 
fergot. The only part that counts is the part I ain’t 
lived yet.” 

The girl smiled: “And you like it here? You 
are going to stay in the timber?” 

“I’ll tell the world I’m goin’ to stay! That is,” 
he added, “as long as there’s any timber to stay in.” 

“That’s just it,” said the girl, her face becoming 
suddenly grave. “Logging like Blodgett, and all the 
rest of them log, it won’t be long before all the tim¬ 
ber will be gone. It’s a wicked shame! That’s 
what it is! Why, do you know that it takes God 
from fifty to two hundred years to make a pine 
tree?” 

“An’ it takes Blodgett from five to ten minutes to 
cut it down,” interrupted Leonard, “All a guy’s got 
to do is to count the trees an’ set down fer a few 
minutes with a pencil an’ paper an’ figger how long 
it will take Blodgett to catch up with God. An’ be¬ 
lieve me, if I was God, when he did catch up. I’d 
haul off an’ knock him fer a gool!” 

“Oh, don’t!” cried the girl, crossing herself 
rapidly. “You mustn’t talk that way. It’s irrev¬ 
erent, and very wicked.” 

“Now look here, kid. I didn’t mean no harm. 
My old lady’s a good Catholic—figgered on makin’ 
a priest out of me—But I liked truck drivin’ better. 


200 


Without Gloves 


Got off fer a while on the wrong road—a road that 
didn’t lead nowhere—but I’m back on the main drag 
again, an’ hittin’ on all four. I used to have to go 
to Sunday School when I was a kid, an’ if God’s 
as smart as the priest claimed he is, He knows I’m 
fer Him good an’ strong in this here timber busi¬ 
ness. It don’t stand to reason if it’s took Him all 
them years to build up the big sticks, He wants 
any long nosed, preacher-fakin’ son-of-a-gun like 
Blodgett cuttin’ it all down an’ smashin’ an’ bustin’ 
up what he can’t use. Does it, now ?” 

“No—but, I don’t quite understand. You are 
working for Blodgett—helping to do the very thing 
you say you hate. That is not consistent.” 

“Whatever that is—maybe not. But, I make you, 
all right. It’s like this. What you might say, an 
accident throw’d me into the woods. I didn’t know 
nothin’ about timber, an’ don’t yet—but I’m learnin’ 
every day, an’ I’m goin’ to keep on learnin’ till I 
know all anyone knows about it. It might sound 
kind of funny—kind of foolish maybe fer a guy 
that never seen timber, but the first minute I set 
foot in the woods I felt to home. An’ every minute 
since then I’ve felt more to home. I know, now. I’ll 
never go out of the woods. I’ve be’n doin’ a lot of 
thinkin’ an’ I figgered that the only way I can stay 
in the woods is to hang onto my job, an’ learn all 


201 


Mary MacAlister 

I can about loggin’ the way they do it. But, all the 
while I’m goin’ to keep figgerin’ how the timber 
could be got out without skinnin’ the country right 
down to the sand. Of course, it’s got to be took 
out at a profit. But Big Tim Neely says it can, an’ 
I believe it can.” 

“Of course it can!” cried the girl, “Look here! 
Look all around you. We’re taking it out at a pro¬ 
fit.” 

“Who’s we?” asked Leonard. 

“My father and I. He took up this land years 
and years ago—before I was born. He thinks of 
timber, and he speaks of timber as a crop, to be har¬ 
vested year by year, when it is ripe. For years men 
have laughed at him and called him crazy. ‘Crazy 
old Paddy MacAlister,’ they call him. But, it’s 
beginning to pay, and pay well. It has been long 
work, and hard work. No one will ever know just 
how hard, but my father. But, he knew he was 
right, and he stuck to it, and he has lived to see it 
pay.” 

“You say it’s only just beginnin’ to pay? An’, 
how long did you say he’s be’n at it ?” asked Leonard, 
a note of disappointment in his voice, “I’m afraid 
there ain’t no loggin’ outfit that would wait that 
long fer their profits.” 

“Oh, but they wouldn’t have to!” exclaimed the 


202 


Without Gloves 


girl. “Dad wouldn’t have had to wait either, if he 
had had any capital to start with. But he didn’t— 
not one cent. He’s had to do everything himself, 
with what help my mother could give him. Then I 
got big enough to help, and with three of us it has 
gone better. I’ve only been here part of the time, 
though. For twelve years, until this year, I have 
been away at school for eight months of the year. 
But, now, I am through, and this year we are going 
to hire a man to help with the sawing. In all these 
years, except for the drive, Dad has not paid out 
one cent for wages. He didn’t have it to pay. It 
has been a hard, hard grind for him, but he stuck to 
it. He has proved that he was right,” she paused 
and her eyes swept with pride the surrounding forest 
area, with its low, neat stumps, its absence of slash, 
its plowed fire lines, and its stalwart young stuff. 

Leonard nodded his understanding: “It was that I 
was lookin’ at when I seen you cornin’ along,” he 
said, “I’d be’n settin’ on a stump takin’ it all in fer 
a long while. It’s what could be done in every camp, 
if you could only make ’em believe it.” 

“They never will believe it. A few of them have 
been over here to see for themselves. They all admit 
it is a fine piece of timber, but they all say the same 
thing. ‘It may work out all right on a small piece, 
but you couldn’t work a big tract that way.’ They 


203 


Mary MacAlister 

believe it, too. But we know better, Dad and I. We 
know that it could be worked on a big tract better, 
even, than a small one.” 

“How much land you got here?” asked Leonard. 

“Three hundred and twenty acres that we’ve 
worked. A few years ago Dad bought the quarter 
section that lies west of us, but we haven’t done 
anything with that yet.” 

“Gee!” exclaimed Leonard, suddenly. “It’s be- 
ginnin’ to git dark, an’ I’m a long ways from camp! 
I got to be goin’. You see, I ain’t hep to this here 
woods stuff yet so’s I could find my way back in the 
dark. If I was through that swamp an’ acrost the 
river I could make it all right.” 

The girl laughed: “I don’t know just where this 
new camp of Blodgett’s is,” she said, “But you won’t 
have to go out the way you came in. We have a 
road to the river and a foot bridge just above the 
ford. I’ll show you the way, and from there it can’t 
be over four or five miles to any part of the Blod~ 
gett tract.” 

At the foot bridge Leonard halted and looked 
straight into the violet eyes: “Say, kid,” he said 
abruptly, “I can come back sometimes, can’t I? I 
guess there’ll be times when I’ll be caught up with 
the haulin’. The way I figger it, I can learn all 
about the wrong way to handle timber where I’m 


204 


Without Gloves 


at, but I got to learn the right way, too. An’ there 
ain’t nowheres else I can learn it.” 

The girl hesitated, and Leonard persisted: “You 
might’s well say ‘yes,’ ” he smiled, “ ’Cause I’m 
cornin’. An’ next time I’ll be able to find my way 
home in the dark.” 

The red lips parted in an answering smile: “I 
was thinking of Dad,” she answered, “I don’t know 
what he’ll say. You see, he don’t like Blodgett. 
And now that Blodgett is logging off this tract, he’ll 
be looking around for more timber. Dad has re¬ 
fused several offers from him, and he’s afraid Blod¬ 
gett will try to get the timber—some other way. He 
don’t trust him.” 

“Him an’ I both !” agreed Leonard, “Believe me, 
if I was settin’ in a game with that guy four kings 
would look about as good to me on his deal as 
catchin’ a black trey to a heart flush. Him an’ Par¬ 
son Reddick would make a swell team. Parson, his 
grift is to rig up like a preacher with a long black 
coat an’ a dinky little black necktie, an’ pull a long 
face. He works the hotels up around Greeley Square, 
an’ grabs off the suckers that thinks that ’cause he 
packs a Bible around in under his arm he’s simple- 
hearted an’ honest. It’s a good grift. He turns up 
a lot of them suckers. But, take it from me, kid, 
when the piousness sticks out on a man so it’s the 


Mary MacAlister 205 

first thing you notice about him—look out! It ain’t 
there fer nothin’. It’s property.” 

“It’s so funny,” laughed the girl, “I don’t under¬ 
stand half the words you use, and yet I know 
what you mean. But, it really will be dark before 
you get to the camp, if you don’t hurry. Good¬ 
bye.” 

“Good-bye, see you later,” Leonard called, and 
disappeared in the forest on the opposite side of the 
river. 

For some time the girl stood staring into the dark¬ 
ening forest. Then she turned and made her way 
to the cabin that was her home. 

“Who’s Paddy MacAlister?” asked Leonard of 
big Tim Neely, as he and the boss sat that evening 
in the little office that had been added as a lean-to 
against the end of the bunk house. 

“Paddy MacAlister?” Neely removed the pipe 
from between his lips and spat into the sawdust 
filled box beside the stove, “Well, Paddy’s a kind of 
an odd fish that settled down over on Wild Goose 
when I was a kid. Some says he’s kind of touched 
in the head, an’ some says he’s jest natchly too lazy 
to farm. I don’t know nothin’ about him—ain’t seen 
him fer years.” 

“Ever be’n in his timber?” 

“No. Heard he had a patch of it that he was sort 


206 Without Gloves 

of nursin’ along. That’s why folks claim he’s 
crazy.” 

“I wisht I was crazy—like him,” Leonard grinned. 
The big boss eyed him questioningly; “What you 
drivin’ at? What do you know about old Paddy 
MacAlister an’ his timber?” 

“I don’t know nothin’ about Paddy. But I was 
through part of his timber, today.” 

“Well?” Neely returned the pipe to his mouth 
and puffed it into full glow. 

“Well, you’d ought to see it. That’s all. Been 
loggin’ a little better’n a livin’ off’n it for some- 
wheres around twenty-five years, an’ you can’t see 
where he’s took the stuff off except fer the stumps. 
He’s got fire lines plowed up around it, an’ the young 
stuff stands thicker’n the scrub does on the cut-over. 
An’ there ain’t no slash left on the ground, neither. 
Them woods is so clean fire couldn’t run through 
’em. Maybe he’s crazy, but if he is so are you. 
’Cause he’s got just the kind of a piece of timber 
you was tryin’ to tell me about if it was logged 
right.” 

“An’ it lays dost to here?” asked Neely, blowing 
smoke ceilingward. 

“Just acrost the river west of here.” 

For some moments the boss smoked in silence. 
Then, slowly, he nodded his head. “It would be 


\ 


Mary MacAlister 207 

that, an’ nothin’ else,” he said, more to himself than 
to the other. 

“What would be what ?” asked Leonard. 

Instead of answering Neely countered with a 
question: “You an old ‘Lij’ must of got pretty well 
acquainted drivin’ back to Thunder Head together. 
What do you think of him?” 

Leonard winked deliberately: “If I seen him 
cornin’, an’ I had a roll on me, I’d keep one hand 
on the roll, an’ two eyes on his mitts as long as he 
stayed in reach.” 

Neely grinned; “Maybe he’s all right, though. 
I’ve heard how he’s the main squeeze in one of 
them big churches down to St. Paul.” 

“Sure he would be. That’s part of his game. 
Believe me, boss, if he’s square, so’s the devil! 
Them there church folks is either an easy bunch of 
suckers to be took in by a guy like him or else, the 
chances is, he’s come acrost pretty heavy with the 
jack, an’ they don’t want to know nothin’ about 
him.” 

“Guess we ain’t so far apart about old ‘Lij.’ 
Which bein’ the case, what you told me about old 
Paddy MacAlister’s timber kind of gives me the 
answer to a p’int I be’n studyin’ about sence a while 
back.” 

“What’s that?” 


208 


Without Gloves 


“Why, maybe it’s the reason fer ‘Lij’ hirin’ Sam 
King for to run Number Nine. ‘Lij’ ain’t no fool. 
He knows as well as I do jest what kind of a damn’ 
skunk Sam is. Long’s I kin remember Sam’s be’n 
doin’ the dirty work fer the big lumbermen. When¬ 
ever they was a dam to be blow’d up, or a piece of 
timber to be fired, or stole, Sam was the man they 
counted on to do the job. An’ it’s said that they’s 
be’n a time or two when he didn’t stop short of 
murder, neither. ’Course they ain’t never proved 
nothin’ on him. The men that hires him ’tends to 
that.” 

“What would be his game?” asked Leonard, 
eagerly. 

Neely shook his head: “Search me. But, I got 
an idea that if we keep our eyes on Sam King, it 
won’t be no hell of a while till we find out which 
way the wind blows.” 

Leonard stood up suddenly, facing the boss. 
“Say, Neely, if Blodgett tries to gyp old Paddy 
MacAlister out of his timber, an’ things breaks so 
we could butt in an’ gum his game, where’d you 
stand?” 

Neely regarded the speaker curiously: “Well I 
ain’t never helped anyone steal another man’s timber 
yet,” he answered. 

“That ain’t what I said. What I mean is, would 


209 


Mary MacAlister 

you go out of yer way, even if you know’d it would 
cost you your job, to help turn Blodgett up? To 
save MacAlister’s timber?” 

Neely nodded: ‘‘Guess you could count me in,” 
he said with a grin. “But, what in hell are you so 
interested in old Paddy’s timber fer? You be’n 
talkin’ to him ?” 

“No, I ain’t. It’s the timber—mostly. It would 
be a damn’ shame to let a man like Blodgett turn 
loose a crew in that stuff. If you’d saw it you’d 
know what I mean.” 

“But how’d you know how long he’d be’n workin’ 
it? An’ about it payin’ out better’n a livin’, an’ all 
that?” 

“His girl told me,” answered Leonard, “an’ say, 
bo, she’s some queen! I never seen no moll like her 
before. Prettiest thing I ever seen. An’ smart— 
knows all about timber, an’ the way to handle it 
without rippin’ hell out of the woods. Dresses jest 
like a man, an’ believe me, she swings a mean ax! 
Watched her notch a tree to miss some young stuff. 
I ain’t seen nothin’ on this job that would touch it 
fer good clean notchin’.” 

Neely laughed: “So, that’s the way the land lays, 
is it? Well, good luck to you, lad.” 

“You talk like a fool. A moll gypped me onct— 
gypped me right, too. Fer as that goes, I’m off ’em 


210 


Without Gloves 


fer life—but jest the same, they ain’t no one goin’ 
to gyp her old man out of his timber if I can help 
it—not an’ her with eyes like that, there ain’t.” And 
without waiting for a reply, Leonard left the office, 
and made his way to the bunk house. 


CHAPTER XV 


FIRE LINES 

Cold weather came on. Ponds and lakes froze, 
and the ground congealed to a flinty hardness. Then 
came the snow. On the first six-inch fall, Leonard, 
trailing four wide-bunk log-sleds behind his tractor, 
broke out the road to Number Nine. 

“Think that damned rig’s goin’ to keep my bank- 
ground clean of logs all winter?” asked Sam King, 
as Leonard spotted a sled for loading. 

“Don’t know. Tell you more about it. in the 
spring,” answered the tractor man, “Blodgett says 
it will.” 

“What you goin’ to do when the snow gits deep ?” 

“Haul logs,” answered Leonard, “If you can put 
’em on the bankin’-ground.” 

“Cocky as hell fer a greener, ain’t you?” sneered 
King, “Maybe you won’t be so cocky about the time 
we git a real snow, an’ yer cast-iron buzz-wagon gits 
bogged to its belly in a drift, an’ you’ve got to git 
211 


212 


Without Gloves 


a real team to haul you out. Besides, if you go 
shootin’ off yer face like that around this camp, 
someone’s liable to take a poke at you.” 

A retort in kind trembled on Leonard’s lips, but 
at that instant into his brain flashed the memory of 
Kid Morowitz, the narrowed, hate-blazing eyes, and 
the flailing gloves of that fatal eighth round, and 
without a word he turned away and busied himself 
with his engine. The men of the loading crew had 
heard the boss’s taunt, and were grinning and snick¬ 
ering among themselves at the greener’s craven 
silence. 

“Shot a deer yesterday,” remarked one to another, 
in a tone meant to be overheard by Leonard. 
“Brought everything in but the guts.” 

“Shouldn’t ort to left ’em behind,” opined another, 
“Some folks might need ’em.” 

Leonard heard. He felt himself growing hot and 
cold by turns, as he wiped needlessly at a spark plug. 
What he ought to do, and what he longed to do, 
and yet what he knew he did not dare to do, was 
to resent the insult with his two fists. Since coming 
into the lumber woods he had almost forgotten the 
yellow streak that he had known always was in his 
heart, and that had cropped out for the world to 
see in that terrible eighth round. Had forgotten it 
because in his association with the men of Number 


Fire Lines 


213 


Eight, he had had no cause to remember it. The 
men of his own camp had hectored him, as they 
would have hectored any greener, but the hectoring 
had been so palpably without malice that he had 
taken no offence. But this case was different. 
Number Nine’s boss had gone out of his way to 
deliberately insult him, and the men of the loading 
crew, taking their cue from the boss, had carried on 
the insult. He knew that wherever men forgather 
open insult demands open retaliation. Knew, also, 
that if he had then and there started a fight even 
though his opponent had finished it, no slightest 
odium would have attached to him, provided he had 
done his best. And only too well he knew that by 
cravenly accepting the insults he had lost caste. The 
story would be repeated that night in the bunk house 
of Number Nine, and in a day or two it would get 
to Number Eight. Inwardly Leonard cursed him¬ 
self, and in vain he tried to summon the courage to 
call his tormentor to account. But the mere thought 
of facing the blows of a doubled fist turned the blood 
to water in his veins. He couldn’t do it. He was a 
coward. He was yellow to the heart. And the men 
of the camps would know. 

The sleds were loaded at last, the big pyramids of 
logs chained in place, and Leonard pulled slowly out 
onto the log road. A mile from Number Eight a 


214 


Without Gloves 


slight rise stalled him. He uncoupled the two rear 
sleds, doubling back for them. In the afternoon he 
made another trip to Number Nine. “Spot her right 
here, Betilda,” ordered the top loader, as Leonard 
swung the sleds into place. 

“Say, Con, is them guts still where you left ’em?” 
called one of the crew. 

“ ’Spect they be. Ain’t seen no one that looked 
like he’d got ’em.” And so it went, Leonard listen¬ 
ing in silence, while the four sleds were being loaded. 
By shovelling snow on the place where the runners 
had cut to the ground, he managed to make the rise 
and deliver his four sleds beside the waiting flat cars. 

After supper that night he went directly to bed. 

It took four days to clear Number Nine’s bank 
ground—four days of torture for Leonard, who 
listened in sullen silence to the gibes of the loading 
crew. Meantime the word had passed down to 
Number Eight. No man mentioned it, nor did any 
even indirectly allude to it, but Leonard knew they 
knew. He had seen little knots of swampers and 
sawyers talking together as he passed them on the 
log road, and in the bunk house and at meals, men 
glanced at him, and abruptly looked away. He had 
known, of course, that they would hear of it. But 
this deliberate silence was harder to bear than the 
open taunts of the Number Nine men. 




Fire Lines 


215 


Morose and sullen, he drew more within himself, 
even avoiding big Tim Neely, with whom it had 
become his custom to spend two or three evenings 
a week in the little office, absorbing the lore of the 
woods. 

With Number Nine’s bank ground cleared, he told 
Neely he was going hunting, and right after break¬ 
fast started for MacAlister’s. He found the girl, 
log scale in hand, on the banking ground just below 
the ford. Except that a mackinaw of subdued colour¬ 
ing covered the vividly checked shirt, she was dressed 
precisely as she had been on the day of their previous 
meeting. Leonard paused in the bush before cross¬ 
ing the river and for several minutes watched her 
pace back and forth as she waited for logs. Then, 
ignoring the foot bridge, he crossed the river on the 
ice. The girl was waiting on the trampled snow as 
he stepped from the river. “So, you did come back, 
didn’t you?” 

“Sure, I did. Didn’t I say so?” 

“Yes, but people don’t always do what they say 
they will.” 

“Well, that’s ’cordin’ to who they are, an’ what 
they say. I said I’d come back, an’ I come. So, 
that’s that. I’m wonderin’ what did your old man 
say when he found out one of Blodgett’s men had 
be’n here, an’ was cornin’ back?” 


216 


Without Gloves 


The girl smiled: “He didn’t say much—he never 
does—unless—” She paused abruptly. 

“Unless what?” asked Leonard. 

“Unless he’s been drinking whiskey. He don’t 
drink very often. Only two or three times a year 
when he goes to town. And then he talks, and 
talks, and talks, wherever he can find anybody who 
will listen. Some men want to fight when they’re 
drinking, and some want to sing, but Dad just wants 
to talk.” 

“That don’t hurt him none. My old man used to 
hit her up, too. Only his was every Saturday night, 
an’ he’d git grouchier an’ grouchier, till someone 
hauled off an’ knocked him fer a gool, an’ then he’d 
come home an’ take it out on me an’ the old lady.” 

The girl laid a mittened hand on his arm, and the 
violet eyes looked searchingly into his: “Don’t ever 
offer Dad any liquor, will you? He never drinks 
around home—never even keeps it in the house. 
But if he should get started it would be—awful.” 

“Nix on that, kid. I never use it. It’s made a 
lot of ’em take the count. It’s poor stuff to train 
on.” 

“Train on?” asked the girl, “What do you mean? 
Train for what?” 

Leonard laughed: “Oh, fer whatever a guy’s got 
to do.” 


Fire Lines 


217 

"Just some more of your funny way of speaking,” 
said the girl, joining in the laugh. 

"Where do yer git that—funny? You must have 
a swell time livin’ if everything a guy says is funny.” 

"Well, it is funny,” insisted the girl, "I never 
heard anybody talk that way before, and I can’t 


The sentence was broken by the rattle of a chain, 
and Leonard looked up to see a big team swing up 
to the rollway. Standing upon the two logs chained 
to the travois was a smallish man of the “black 
Irish” type, knitted cap shoved well to the back of 
his head, and a short cutty pipe between his teeth. 
The man stepped from the logs as the two 
approached: "Dad, this is the man I told you about, 
the one that was so interested in the timber. Mr. 

-” She paused abruptly and laughed, "Why, do 

you know, you’ve never told me your name!” 

"Leonard—Shirly Leonard.” 

"Shearly Linerd,” repeated the older man. "Th* 
Shearly part’s all roight, but Oi never heered of no 
Oirish Linerds.” 

Leonard grinned: "Maybe not. But, I’m half 
Irish, all the same. My mother’s name was Duffy.” 

"Thot’s better. Well, as th’ sayin’ goes, a half 
a loaf is better thin none, an’ Oi guess t’would be th’ 
same wid an’ Oirishman.” 




218 


Without Gloves 


Leonard grinned as he looked into the face of the 
man whose little grey eyes, red-rimmed and watery, 
but extremely bright with a stabbing sort of keen¬ 
ness, seemed to be taking his measure. “Somethin’ 
of a kidder, eh ? Well go ahead. I’m used to it by 
this time.” 

“So ye was t’rough th’ timber th’ other day, was 
ye? How do ye figger she stands?” 

“A thousand to the acre, or a hundred thousand— 
I wouldn’t know the difference—yet. I’m no 
cruiser. I’m runnin’ a tractor fer Blodgett.” 

“An’ if ye ain’t a cruiser what did old ’Lijer sind 
ye over here fer?” 

“He didn’t send me. I was deer huntin’ an’ come 
into the timber through the swamp.” 

“Deer huntin’—an’ th’ sayson closed?” 

“A little tamarack beef goes good fer a change,” 
grinned Leonard. “I bet you knock off one now an’ 
then, yourself.” 

“Av’ ye ain’t a cruiser ye might be a game warden, 
so av Oi’ve kilt an-ny tamarack beef, ut’s so long 
ago, Oi’ve fergot ut.” 

“You see, Dad’s suspicious of strangers.” 

“I’d be, too,” sa’id Leonard, “If I owned a piece 
of timber like this that laid in next to Blodgett.” 

“So ye think he’ll thry to git holt av ut ? Whut’s 
his game?” 


Fire Lines 


219 


Leonard shrugged: “I don’t know. But, believe 
me, if I was you, I’d keep my eyes open. He ain’t 
overlookin’ no bets.” 

“Av ye ain’t a cruiser, an’ ain’t a game warden, 
whut’r ye back here fer? Didn’t Mary tell ye we 
didn’t want no huntin’ around here?” 

“Yes, she told me. I brought the gun along this 
time fer an excuse to git away from camp, an’ may¬ 
be pick up a deer between there an’ here. What I 
really come fer was to see if I couldn’t learn some¬ 
thin’ about loggin’ the way it ought to be done— 
without smashin’ an’ tearin’ hell out of everything 
that ain’t fit to be cut.” 

“An’ whut d’ye want to know about thot fer, av 
ye ain’t got no timber av yer own ? They ain’t no big 
comp’ny goin’ to log th’ way I log. They say ut 
can’t be done.” 

“But, you know it can be done,” said Leonard, 
earnestly, “She told me you knew it.” 

“Sure, Oi know ut. But, they don’t—the wans 
thot hires crews.” 

“But, they will some time! Big Tim Neely told 
me, before I ever saw your timber. He claims if 
they’d logged right from the start there’d be as much 
timber left as there ever was, an’ better timber. An’ 
I believe it’s true. An’ if it is true, it’s only a ques¬ 
tion of time till the big ones find it out. And when 


220 


Without Gloves 


they do, the guy that knows how t<5 do it right will 
be the guy that’ll draw down the jack.” 

“They’ll niver see ut!” exclaimed MacAlister, 
almost savagely. “Oi’ve be’n talkin’ ut f’r years, 
an’ they call me crazy. Let um. But, Oi’ll be sellin’ 
pine whin th’ rist av utn’s skinnin’ th’ cut-over f’r 
pulp-wood.” 

“The Gover’ment an’ the State’ll be doin’ it before 
long, if no one else does. Neely says so. They’re 
startin’ already. An’ he says they got to do it, ’cause 
they’re beginnin’ to git a lot of the cut-over turned 
back on ’em fer taxes, or somethin’—an’ it won’t 
grow nothin’ but timber.” 

MacAlister shook his head doubtfully: “Ut w’d 
take a sight av money, an’ a sight av toime, th’ shape 
th’ cut-over’s in to start wid.” 

“They’d find the money,” persisted Leonard, 
“An’ what’s time to a State? States ain’t got to 
die.” 

“Ye’re a shmart lad, an’ mebbe ye’re roight. An- 
nyway, ye’ve got th’ roight idee. But come along. 
An’ av they’s things ye be wantin’ to know, Oi’ll be 
tellin’ ye.” 

Seizing an extra cant-hook, Leonard helped roll 
the logs from the travois, the girl deftly applied her 
scale, made a notation, and joined the two men as 
they followed the team into the woods. 


Fire Lines 


221 


“How do you git rid of your slash?” asked 
Leonard, as his glance travelled over the smooth 
floor of the forest. 

“Use the limbs f’r fire-wood, an’ cut the loppin’s 
to where they’ll lay flat, an’ scatter um.” 

“Why not burn the loppin’s ?” 

“Rotten wood’s manure. Oi ain’t a logger, lad, 
Oi’m a timber farmer. In th’ early days down in 
th’ settlemints where they was farmin’ th’ new land 
that run thirty-five an’ forty bushel av wheat to th’ 
acre, they burnt their straw in th’ stack to be red 
av ut. They was fools, takin’ everythin’ off the land 
an’ givin’ the land nothin’ back. They don’t do ut 
now. Ut was an expinsive lesson they learnt, an’ 
now they save ivery straw an’ they winter more 
stock thin they need to, so they’ll have manure to 
give back to th’ land. An’ ’tis th’ same wid timber 
as wid grain. Ye can git somethin’ f’r nothin’ f’r 
a while, but ye can’t kape on doin’ ut year afther 
year, an’ stay in th’ game.” 

“But, would it pay on a big tract?” asked 
Leonard, “If you were runnin’ a big crew, you’d 
soon have more fire-wood than you’d know what to 
do with.” 

“Oi’d say, lop ut an’ lave ut lay thin. Git ut flat 
on th’ ground so th’ fire couldn’t git holt on ut an’ let 
’er rot.” 


222 


Without Gloves 


“Yes, an’ there’s another thing. On a big tract 
would it pay to build fire lines?” 

The old man brought up the team with a jerk and 
turned to face the questioner: “Wud ut pay to build 
fire lines! Wud ut pay! Did ye iver help fight fire 
in th’ timber? No! Did ye iver see a fire in th’ 
timber ? No!” The question had roused the man to 
unwonted excitement. “They’s more timber be’n 
burnt thin iver’s be’n cut! An’ whut’s be’n cut’s 
paid, ain’t ut ? Be th’ looks av th’ millionaires thot’s 
made their money off’n timber, ut’s paid! Th’ ques¬ 
tion ye’ve asked shows ye’re as ignerent av timber 
as th’ min that’s makin’ their millions in ut ar-re. 
Ye’d not be askin’ av ut paid a farmer to fence his 
grain fields, an’ yet th’ worst cud happen to um av 
he didn’t wud be to lose what little grain stray an’ 
rovin’ stock cud eat, an’ tromp down. Nixt year’s 
crop wud come along jist th’ same. But ut’s different 
wid timber. A big fire—a top fire, wud take ut 
clane. But, even a runnin’ fire—a ground fire does 
damage thot ut wud take a wiser mon thin me to 
figger in dollars. ’Tis not only the standin’ young 
stuff thot’s distroyed, an’ scarred an’ damaged f’r 
life, so’t will niver make a log, but ut bums up th’ 
seed in th’ ground thot wud sprout into a tree, nixt 
year, or th’ nixt. An’ thin th’ damage has only jist 
begun! Ut burns up the ground, yis sir, th’ ground 


Fire Lines 


223 


utsilf! Ut’s what th’ books call th’ humus, an’ as 
near as we c’n make out—I buy th’ books, an Mary 
here reads um out loud, an’ togither we figger out 
what they mane—As near as we c’n make out, ut’s 
like this: This humus is whut th’ trees feeds on. It’s 
th’ life av th’ soil. Soil widout humus is dead as 
brick-dust. Nothin’ll grow in ut. This humus is 
alive, millions an’ millions av germs, er bugs, er 
whatnot thot’s workin’ all th’ time breakin’ up th’ 
rotten wood an’ th’ manure av whutiver kind into 
food f’r th’ plants. A fire—an’ a slash fire is hot 
enough to do ut, burns up th’ manure, an’ kills th’ 
bugs er germs, an’ laves th’ land dead an’ barren 
till ut’s laid long enough to build up agin. An’ 
thot’s a mather av years. Thot’s whut fire does! 
Oi’m tellin’ ye, lad, on a big tract, th’ furst thing Oi’d 
do wud be to run fire lines every quarter av a mile, 
er at laste, a quarter av a mile wan way, an’ a half 
mile th’ other.” The old man paused abruptly, and 
abruptly he snapped out a question. “Have ye 
learnt an-nything, er have Oi be’n talkin’ f’r nothin’ 
—like Oi’ve be’n talkin’ f’r nothin’ to th’ rist av um 
all these years?” 

Leonard looked straight into the little watery eyes 
that regarded him shrewdly: “I’ll tell the world I 
learnt somethin’, bo. I’ve learnt that the guy that 
can keep fire losses off his books is the guy that wins 


224 


Without Gloves 


out in the timber game. If ever I git the chanct to 
run a piece of timber, an’ run it right, the first job 
I’ll tackle will be gittin’ in my fire lines.” 

“An’ av ye do thot,” said MacAlister, with a grin, 
“Ye’ll have to run the rist av ut domn poor to kape 
from showin’ a profit.” 

“How much you takin’ out this year?” asked 
Leonard. 

“Oh, not so much,” answered the old man, eva¬ 
sively. “Th’ price ain’t right f’r to crowd the cut 
an-ny.” 

“But, it’s goin’ up, an’ goin’ fast.” 

MacAlister shot him a keen glance: “I thot 
ye didn’t know nothin’ about timber? An’ here 
ye’re posted on th’ market—an’ advance knowledge 
av th’ market. Out with ut, now—what’s ye’re 
game ?” 

Leonard grinned: “I don’t know nothin’, much— 
but I’m learnin’ more every day. The only thing I 
know about the market is what I heard Blodgett 
tell Tim Neely. He said lumber was goin’ up 
fast, an’ that’s why he put in two camps instead 
of one. He wants to log off the whole tract this 
winter on account of prices goin’ up. He said 
it was the war over in the old country that’s doin’ it 
—but what they need lumber in a war fer’s more’n 
I know.” 


Fire Lines 


225 


The explanation apparently satisfied the other, for 
the little eyes twinkled: “Ut’s th’ OirishTl be nadin’ 
ut, ” he said, “F’r to build skids to put in under thim 
Dutchmens.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

BUCKING THE STORM 

As Leonard followed his own back trail through 
the forest in the early darkness of evening his 
thoughts were for the most part of the girl with the 
violet eyes—of the girl, and of the time—some time 
in the distant future, when he should be boss of a 
camp. 

Not until he stepped from the forest into the 
clearing that surrounded Number Eight did the af¬ 
fairs of the present obtrude upon his thoughts. He 
paused and stared at the ugly buildings that reared 
themselves out of the trampled snow, their roofs 
gleaming white in the light of the waxing moon. 
Dull squares of light showed at the windows. He 
could see men moving about inside, crowding the 
wash benches at one end of the bunk house. Every 
half-minute or so the door opened, and a basin of 
dirty water splashed onto the mound of grey ice that 
was gradually building to the right of the path to 
the cook shack. He knew that these men were talk- 


226 


Bucking the Storm 227 

ing and laughing in the exchange of rude jests as 
they waited their turn at the benches. A little group 
of men crossed the clearing from the direction of 
the stables—teamsters, their horses unharnessed and 
fed—and they, too, were talking and laughing. 

The bunk house door opened, illuminated for a 
moment the fan-shape heap of frozen slop-water, 
and closed. The window in the lean-to office went 
suddenly black. Tim Neely stepped from the door, 
paused for a moment, and in answer to the raucous 
clangour that burst suddenly upon the crisp air, 
moved off to join the crowd that belched from the 
bunk house and swarmed toward the cook shack in 
the door of which the be-aproned cook was beat¬ 
ing lustily upon the old saw that hung suspended 
by wires from a protruding roof log. 

The day-dreams of the back-trail vanished in a 
wave of sudden bitterness. He hated it all! Hated 
the squat, ugly buildings, the silent vastness of the 
forest, and the trampled snow of the clearing. But 
most of all he hated the men—these men who had 
taken it upon themselves to judge him. “Who in 
hell do they think they are ?” he muttered savagely, 
“A lot of boobs crowded in a bunk house that stinks 
of dryin’ socks! All they know is work, an’ laughin’ 
loud at fool jokes, an’ listenin’ to damn’ fool stories 
that they wouldn’t no ten-year-old kid on the Avenue 


228 


Without Gloves 


grab fer a minute. They eat like a bunch of hogs, 
an’ they dress like—like—” Nothing occurred to 
Leonard to which he could liken their dress, and he 
glanced down at his own mackinaw, and woollen 
trousers and shapeless felt boots. “An I’m just like 
’em! A boob—right!” 

With his eyes on the felt boots, his thoughts 
harked back to his rooms in the Avenue Hotel. To 
the ornate brass bed, with its thick mattress and its 
white sheets. To the rows of expensive, if rather 
bizarre clothing that filled the two closets, and the 
assortment of high-priced shoes that were the last 
word in East Side elegance. To the fatuous and 
flatulent Klingermann. To the smooth, suave men 
who lived by brain, and not by brawn, but lived— 
where the night lights blazed, and with the voice of 
the city always in their ears. And—to Lotta Rivoli 
—the soft, purring, languorous Lottie, in whose 
black eyes the love-light smouldered as she lay close 
in his arms. To the alluring, the seductive Lottie in 
the knee-length red skirt, the tiny high-heeled pumps, 
the sheeny silken hose—and little else. And then— 
to Dago Lottie, the tigress, the husband killer, the 
double-crosser of men. “God,” he breathed, aloud, 
“They’re crooks, an’ double-crossers, an’ liars! 
There ain’t a square one among ’em, but old Red 
Casey—an’ he was more like these,” his glance 


Bucking the Storm 229 

swept for a moment the lighted windows of the cook 
shack. But, in his mind’s eye he was looking into 
a face whose violet eyes looked squarely into his own. 
It was as if she stood there in the moonlight beside 
him, this girl whose every movement bespoke the 
perfect health of the great outdoors, who dressed 
like a man, who could do a man’s work with a man’s 
tools, but withal, who was so intensely feminine that, 
despite the masculine attributes with which she sur¬ 
rounded herself, the spirit of femininity seemed to 
pervade the very air she breathed. “She wouldn’t 
never double-cross a guy, not in a thousan’ years,” 
he muttered, and raising the rifle butt from the snow 
where he had rested it, he slowly crossed the clear¬ 
ing. 

For an instant as he had stood there in the snow 
it seemed to him that he would give anything in the 
world, would gladly risk, even facing the charge of 
murder, to be back there in the city, to see the bright 
lights, and to hear the roar of traffic thundering in 
his ears—but only for an instant. Then, suddenly 
in the silence of the forest night, he had realized 
that the city, as he knew the city, had become repug¬ 
nant to him. The criminal scheming of the powers 
that prey against society at large, and the vicious 
plotting among themselves of the gamblers, the gun¬ 
men, the dips, the yeggs, and the con-men, to say 


230 


Without Gloves 


nothing of their plots and counter-plots which in¬ 
cluded the very men whose sworn duty it was to 
protect society from their depredations. He knew, 
as he walked slowly toward the little office, that he 
would never go back—that he never could go back, 
for there, even as here, he would be looked upon as 
a pariah and an outcast. No, he would never go 
back. Here, at least, he could live, but there—he 
shuddered as he opened the door of the office, and 
stood Neely’s rifle in a corner. As he entered the 
bunk house and splashed the cold water from the 
basin over his face, he knew that he wanted to be 
of these men of the camp and not a thing apart. No 
man in Number Eight had ever even hinted at the 
incident that had taken place at Number Nine’s bank- 
ground, but instinctively Leonard knew that every 
man in the camp had heard of it. Gone was the 
comradery that had followed their discovery that 
with his tractor he could do the work of several 
teamsters. In its place was a studied indifference. 
“Damn ’em up there to Number Nine! It’s their 
doin’s. I’ll knock ’em cold!” he said aloud, as he 
doubled his fist and flexed the muscles of his arm— 
and then, the fighting face of Kid Morowitz rose 
up before him, the narrowed, gleaming eyes, and the 
writhing lips, and the blows of the fist that rocked 
and jarred, “God, I—can’t,” the words were a moan. 


231 


Bucking the Storm 

He opened the door, threw the water from the wash 
dish onto the dirty grey mound of slop ice, and made 
his way to the cook shack. “Yellow,” he muttered 
under his breath, “Yellower than they know—’cause 
if only I had the guts, I could knock them birds fer 
a gool.” 

Snow came, and more snow, one storm following 
another until the forest floor lay under a two-foot 
blanket of white. Twice each day the tractor made 
its trip to Number Nine and returned with its load 
of logs—sometimes only two sleds, sometimes three, 
but often all four sleds would draw up beside the 
flats waiting at the railhead. 

It was the men of Number Eight’s loading crew, 
the men whose duty it was to transfer the logs from 
the sleds to the flat cars, that showed the first spark 
of returning comradery. Here was a man they real¬ 
ized who was doing a man’s job, and doing it well, 
and without complaint. They began to call greet¬ 
ings as Leonard pulled up with his logs—greetings 
that were music to the ears of the lonely man who 
had grown sullen in his long silence. The greetings 
were returned in kind, and soon the men were ask¬ 
ing a question, now and then, as to the condition of 
the road, and the quantity of logs on Number Nine’s 
skidways. One day, after a six-inch fall of snow 
they even kidded him a bit for only bringing in one 


232 


Without Gloves 


sled. With a heart lighter than he had known for 
many a long day, he coupled onto his empties and 
chugged off up the log road. 

This last snow had fallen in the night, and all 
morning it continued in fitful flurries, lashed into 
whirling eddies by the wind that roared in the pine 
tops. The grey cloud mantle that for a week had 
obscured the sun, thickened. The snow flurries be¬ 
came more frequent, the flakes finer and dry as flour 
dust so that they befogged Leonard’s eyes and sifted 
down his neck, and up his sleeves, stinging his flesh 
with their icy touch. 

Bad luck at Number Nine’s bank-ground delayed 
him an hour and a half. Through some fault in 
loading, a sled-load of logs shot out sidewise before 
the chains could be fastened, and but for Leonard’s 
quick cry of warning, a man of the crew would have 
been crushed beneath them. It was the man who had 
taunted him, and who had spread the news of his 
cowardice throughout the camps. Cursing the ill 
luck which caused the accident, which was no ill luck 
at all, but the natural consequence of his own care¬ 
lessness, the lumberjack helped reload the sled with¬ 
out a word to the man who had undoubtedly saved 
his life. 

Snow, fine as fog, filled the air, obscuring all but 
the nearer objects, muffling the voice of the wind to 


233 


Bucking the Storm 

a low steady roar, like the roar of falling water 
heard from afar. Knotting his handkerchief tightly 
about his neck, Leonard buttoned his mackinaw, and 
pulling three sled-loads of logs, headed down the log 
road. In the timber the darkness increased and he 
switched on his powerful headlight, but its rays 
were smothered, absorbed in the whirling white. 
This caused him small concern, for he knew every 
turn, every dip, and sag, and hillock in the three- 
mile stretch of road, so shielding his face as best 
he could from the stinging particles, he opened 
his throttle and bored into the opaque smother that 
showed only as a blur of diffused brilliance in the 
rays of the powerful headlight. 

Number Eights crew had long since knocked off 
for the day when the tractor chugged into the clear¬ 
ing. Men crowded the bunk house windows at the 
sound, but all they could make out was a patch of 
white light floating like a ghost through the storm. 
A pair of teamsters coming from the stables stopped 
to view the monster that passed within two yards of 
them. 

“D’ye see the greener pullin’ in?” asked one of 
the men at the window as the teamsters paused in¬ 
side the door to beat the snow-powder from their 
clothing. 

“See—hell!” grinned one, “We seen a snow man 


234 


Without Gloves 


cocked up on the seat of a snow ingyne pullin' three 
snow mountains acrost the clearin'.” 

“Three loads!” exclaimed the top loader, “D'you 
say he brung in three sleds ?” 

“Yes, three,” answered the teamster, as he reached 
for the wash dish. 

Here and there in the bunk house men glanced 
into each other's eyes. “Beats hell, don't it?” 
grunted old Pap Hickman, the saw filer, who had 
been in the woods since boyhood. 

“He won't bring in none tomorry,” opined a saw¬ 
yer, from the deacon seat. 

“No, nor you won’t lay none down, neither,” 
answered another, “Tomorry'll be a gillon an’ they 
won’t no one leave the bunk house, but the teamsters. 
Glad I ain't got no horses to tend to.” 

“We'd ort to have mules,” suggested a teamster. 
“I've heard how you kin throw ’em enough feed for 
a week an’ they won't never founder theirself like 
a horse. Come feedin' time an' they’ll jest walk up 
an' eat their reg'lar feed an’ quit.” 

The door opened and the greener entered in a 
swirl of fine snow. From head to foot he was white 
with clinging particles, and removing his mittens 
and cap, he proceeded to beat the snow from his 
clothing. 

“Stand still an' I'll sweep you,” said the top loader, 


Bucking the Storm 235 

and picking up the broom, proceeded to wield it 
vigorously. 

“Hell of a night,” ventured a teamster who was 
“slickin’ up” his hair before the mirror, “ ’S’wonder 
you got through.” 

Leonard realized almost with the suddenness of a 
blow that these men were talking to him. Snow 
was melting upon his eyebrows and lashes, and dash¬ 
ing the water from his eyes with his fingers, he 
glanced about him, to meet many friendly glances. 
Outside the wind moaned dully, the door rattled, 
and at the crack where it fitted the jamb a little 
fan-shaped drift was forming on the floor. But the 
greener had forgotten the storm. He stood there 
smiling, stirred to the depths by the commonplace 
words of the men of the bunk house. 

“Wouldn’t of cared to make the trip from Num¬ 
ber Nine, myself, in a storm like this,” asserted an 
old swamper, “She’s a hell-winder.” 

“I’ll tell the world,” assented Leonard, “Couldn’t 
see ten feet with the light on.” 

The sound of the cook’s saw was greeted with a 
whoop, and pulling on their caps, the men answered 
the supper call, puffing and crowding as they bored 
through the seething storm. 

Leonard was among the first to finish, and return¬ 
ing to the bunk house, he tied two extra handker- 


236 


Without Gloves 


chiefs about his neck, buttoned his mackinaw tightly 
about him, and once more stepped out into the storm. 

A few minutes later the crowd pouring from the 
cook shack door stopped as one man. From out 
there in the clearing came the sound of the tractor’s 
exhaust. A patch of hazy brightness appeared, a 
patch that moved slowly toward the mouth of the 
log road. 

“What the hell?” cried Neely as, followed by 
several of the men, he plunged to intercept the 
moving patch of light. 

“Hey, you! You crazy, or what?” bellowed the 
big boss, leaning close as he dared to the machine. 

The muffled figure turned at the sound, reached 
for a lever, and the tractor stopped. Leonard leaned 
from the seat to make his voice heard above the roar 
of the storm and the noise of the motor: 

“What you want ?” 

“Where you goin’?” yelled the boss. 

“Got to keep her open—the road. This snow’s 
packin’ hard as she falls. Couldn’t shove a plow 
through it by tomorrow.” 

“It might last two or three days, when it comes 
like this!” howled Neely, but the words were 
drowned in the grinding of gears, as the tractor 
moved slowly away. 

“Buckin’ the storm tryin’ to keep the log road 


237 


Bucking the Storm 

open,” explained one of the men who had followed 
the boss, when they rejoined the others in the bunk 
house. 

“I’d see old ’Lijer Blodgett in hell ’fore I’d try 
to keep his log road open a night like tonight,” 
growled a sawyer. 

“ ’Tain’t ol’ ‘Lij’ he gives a damn about,” broke 
in a loader, “It’s—it’s different than that. As long 
as they’s logs on Number Nine’s skidways that ol’ 
machine of his’n comes snortin’ in twict a day with 
’em. I was jest like you-all first off, figgerin’ ’cause 
he didn’t tear into them buckoes up to Number Nine, 
he didn’t have no guts. But I be’n a-watchin’ him, 
an’ I’m a-tellin’ it to you, it takes more guts to go 
right ahead like he’s b’en doin’, not sayin’ nothin’, 
but hangin’ to the job every day—him knowin’ what 
we was thinkin’—than it would took to lick a dozen 
of Sam King’s men—an’ Sam throw’d in to boot.” 

“Guess they ain’t no one’ll claim he’s a coward 
now,” agreed a man from the deacon seat. 

“Different folks is afraid of different kind of 
things,” opined a swamper, “Look at Frenchy, there, 
afraid of loup-garous, an’ Murray’s afraid of ghosts, 
an’ Mike here’s afraid of snakes, an’ so on. I guess 
they’s somethin’ everyone’s afraid of.” 

“I’ve heerd how this here now, Napolium, was 
afraid of cats,” ventured one. 


238 


Without Gloves 


“Was he?” asked a lean lumberjack, with interest, 
“I never know’d that. Logged with him one year 
over Cloquet way. Lebant, his other name was.” 

“Aw hell! He was King of France or some- 
wheres, way back. An’ he licked the Roosians, an' 
Dagos, an' Chinamens, an’ a lot more.” 

“Might of be’n another feller, then,” admitted the 
lumberjack, “But this here Nap Lebant wasn’t so 
slow, neither. Seen him clean up on four men to 
onct in a saloon one time. They fit with spittoons 
an’ chairs, an’ Nap he licked ’em all. They was 
Irish.” 

“Th’ hell they wuz!” piped up McGinnis, a 
swamper, “He must av ketched ’em asleep thin.” 

“What d’you think about it, Pap?” asked the top 
loader. 

“ ’Bout what?” asked the old saw filer, removing 
the pipe from his mouth. 

“About the greener.” 

“Beats hell,” pronounced the old man judicially. 
“Looks to me like if he’s afraid to fight, an’ hain’t 
afraid of nothin’ else, that’s his business, not ourn.” 

“He’d ort to fit, though,” growled a man surlily 
from the deacon seat. “ ’Cordin’ to their tell, this 
here loader up to Number Nine handed it to him 
pretty raw.” 

“Is that so?” flashed the top loader, himself a man 


Bucking the Storm 239 

famed in the woods for his fighting. ‘‘Well, if 
you’re so hell-bent on seein’ a scrap, jest you step 
out an’ set a toe on that crack right there—yes, that 
un!” The man stood in the centre of the room and 
pointed to a certain crack in the floor, “Toe that 
crack or you’re a dirty coward!” The man did not 
move from the bench, and the top loader laughed, 
“I guess that’s as raw as Number Nine’s loader 
handed it to the greener. An’ on top of that you 
ain’t got the guts to go from here to the stables an’ 
back at night, neither—let alone tackle the log road 
in a storm like this! Let me hear another yip 
out of you about the greener, an’ it ain’t no one else 
but me’ll walk right up you’re middle!” 


CHAPTER XVII 

SAM KING PAYS A VISIT 

The greener kept the log road open. Three round 
trips he made during the night, and the following 
morning, two more. Shortly after noon the storm 
abated, and coupling on two empty sleds, he pulled 
for Number Nine. No one was in sight. There 
was still snow in the air, and spotting his sleds at 
the skid ways, he made his way to the bunk house 
and opened the door. “Logs!” he called, and in¬ 
stantly became the focus of seventy pairs of eyes. 

Sam King was the first to speak: “Where’n hell 
d’you come from? An’ how’d you git here?” 

“Come from Number Eight, an' got here same as 
always,” he answered. “Goin’ to load me?” 

“No, I ain’t a-goin’ to load you! How in hell 
d’you s’pose men’s goin’ to work in a storm like this? 
They won’t be no logs fer you today, nor tomorrow. 
It’ll take us that long to git shovelled out.” 


240 


241 


Sam King Pays a Visit 

Leonard closed the door, climbed to the seat of 
his tractor and headed down the log road. Arriving 
at Number Eight, where the crew was busy with 
shovels, he went to the bunk house, and turned in. 
It was broad daylight when he awoke. For some 
time he lay trying to think where he was. He looked 
at his watch. “Nine o’clock,” he muttered, “But— 
it’s light out doors—an’ where’s the men?” Sud¬ 
denly it dawned on him—he had slept the whole 
night through, and half the forenoon! “An’ I 
thought I’d just flop down till supper,” he muttered, 
as he rolled from his bunk. His clothing was spread 
upon the drying rack. He tried to remember hang¬ 
ing it there. But, no, he recollected the stove had 
been cold when he laid down, and he didn’t bother 
to spread out his clothing. “They done it,” he 
breathed, and swallowed two or three times, “Damn’ 
white of ’em to do it fer a guy they know is—yel- 
ler.” He dressed hurriedly. “Gee, I’m hungry,” 
he grinned into the little wall mirror, “It won’t be 
long before dinner, an’ I don’t have to make no trip 
today.” 

A few minutes later he stepped from the bunk 
house, and was immediately hailed by the cook, who 
had evidently been watching for his appearance. As 
he entered the cook shack, the man pointed to a plate 
heaped with food which he had placed on a small 


242 


Without Gloves 


table near the big range. “Set right down there an 9 
fly at it,” he grinned. “Must be about starved. But 
the boys wouldn’t wake you up las’ night nor neither 
this momin’, figgerin’ you was more in need of sleep 
than grub. Yisterday noon you damn’ near went to 
sleep eatin’ yer dinner.” 

“I can wait till dinner. ’Tain’t right settin’ you 
back this way.” 

“Settin’ back—hell! Throw that into you, an* 
there’s more on the stove. Any gazook that’ll work 
forty hours straight through in a blizzard, I’ll give 
him anything old ’Lijer Blodgett’s got.” 

Leonard grinned happily, as he slipped into the 
chair. 

The day following the big storm, Sam King, 
leaving the shovelling out of the camp in charge of 
a straw boss, shouldered his rifle, and fastening on 
his snow-shoes, struck out for Wild Goose River. 

From the cover of the timber on the Blodgett side, 
he carefully inspected MacAlister’s rollway. A 
quarter of a mile below the ford he crossed the river, 
threaded the swamp and came into the MacAlister 
timber at nearly the same spot that Leonard had 
entered it upon occasion of his first visit. He, too, 
noted the fire lines, the absence of slash, and the 
sturdy and upstanding condition of the carefully 


Sam King Pays a Visit 243 

preserved young stuff. He spat contemptuously into 
the snow, as he stooped to adjust the fastening of 
his snowshoes: “Nursin’ pine! Babyin’ big timber 
along like it was a ten acre wood lot in a back pas¬ 
ture ! Spendin’ time an’ money on fire lines. Be’n 
here, Blodgett says, better’n twenty year, an’ ain’t 
hardly nicked into the good stuff yet.” A sneering 
chuckle followed the words, “He might better of 
took it all off while the takin’ was good. Old ’Lijer 
Blodgett hain’t goin’ to waste no time onct he gits 
a crew into it. An’ he hain’t a-goin’ to waste no 
money on fire lines an’ slash, neither.” For two 
hours the man walked back and forth through the 
timber, his snowshoes leaving a broad flat trail in 
the new-fallen snow. “Eighteen, twenty thousan’ 
to the acre if they’s a foot,” he estimated, “Cull stuff 
an’ bresh all out of the way, roads all built—goin’ 
to be the easiest loggin’ I ever done.” Brushing the 
snow from a stump, King seated himself. “Loggin’ 
it’s one thing, an’ gittin’ it’s another,” he speculated, 
“Blodgett, he claims he’s tried to buy it a half dozen 
times an’ it can’t be done, so I won’t waste no time 
there.” The man paused with an exaggerated wink 
at a red squirrel that whisked about upon the snow, 
“They all know Sam King,” he grinned, “An’ when 
they got any dirty work to do they all send fer Sam. 
‘Nothin’ criminal, Sam-mule, mind you, nothin’ 


244 


Without Gloves 


criminal/ he says, settin’ rared back in his big leather 
chair fittin’ the ends of his fingers together acrost 
his belly. So, that kind of narrows things down. 
It can’t be bought. MacAlister ain’t to be croaked, 
it bein’ criminal, an’ fer the same reason the stuff 
ain’t to be stole. He sent fer the right man. I got 
it doped out a’ready, if the land lays like I think it 
does. But I gotta figger on gittin’ a level man in 
here without excitin’ no suspicions. Cost him a 
bunch o’ money, but the timber’s worth it. Guess 
I’ll jest slip around an’ have a talk with this here 
MacAlister.” 

The old Irishman paused in the shovelling out of 
a huge drift that had formed from the rollway al¬ 
most to the cabin. “An’ who be ye ? An’ what the 
divil ye doin’ in my timber?” 

The boss of Number Nine paused and looked 
down into the rheumy old eyes with a grin: “This 
your timber? Pretty good stand. I was wonderin’ 
who owned it.” 

“Ye workin’ for Blodgett?” 

“Well,” answered King, apparently choosing his 
words, “I am, an’ I hain’t.” The figure that had 
been steadily shovelling snow at a few paces behind 
MacAlister paused at the words and looked up at 
the man who stood on the top of the huge drift. 
The boss of Number Nine stared in astonishment as 


Sam King Pays a Visit 245 

the violet eyes met his own: “Dog-goned if it hain’t 
a gal!” he exclaimed with a widening grin, “An’ 
throwin’ out snow like a man! You’re gal, Mac- 
Alister?” 

The old man ignored the question: “Ye be, an’ 
ye ben’t, an’ mebbe ye’ll tell me th’ meanin’ av thot. 
Av ye’ve be’n cruisin’ my timber fer Blodgett, ye’ve 
wasted ye’re toime. Oi’ve towld um Oi’d niver sell 
to um. An’, Oi’m tellin’ ye now, thot wid all his 
millions, he ain’t got money enough to iver put wan 
av his domned wreckin’ crews into my timber.” 

“Don’t know’s I blame you none,” answered the 
other, “King’s my name—Sam King, an’ I’m sup¬ 
posed to be runnin’ Blodgett’s Number Nine camp, 
but that’s what you might say, sort of politics. 
What I’m after is tryin’ to locate a right of way 
fer the new M. & I. cut-off.” 

“Whut’s th’ M. & I. cut-off?” 

“It’s a railroad. They’re figgerin’ on runnin’ a 
line acrost from Thunder Head to connect up with 
the M. & I. an’ save goin’ clean around by Brain- 
ard.” 

“An’ what’s Blodgett got to do wid thot ?” 

“That’s what I was cornin’ to. You see, he’s got 
two camps over there acrost the river, an’ he figgers 
on loggin’ off the hull tract this winter. What’s he 
got left? Nothin’ but cut-over, an’ his back tract, 


246 


Without Gloves 


that lays twenty mile north of here, acrost the big: 
swamp. He wants this here railroad to run up on 
his side of the river, so’s he kin unload a strip of 
that cut-over land onto the railroad at a big price. 
He owns clean through to Thunder Head, an' if he 
could sell ’em a right of way through there he’d 
gouge ’em fer about as much as he paid fer the 
timber in the first place. The railroad’s onto his 
game, so while I’m up here runnin’ one of his camps, 
they’re hirin’ me to see if a right of way mightn’t 
be got holt of on this side of the river.” 

“Ut’s pretty near all swamp below here on this 
side same as above,” said the old man. 

“I ain’t looked into that, yet, but even if we had 
to run the line up to here on Blodgett’s side, we 
could put in a bridge at your lower line an’ jump 
acrost. The way I look at it, they hain’t no use 
lettin’ one man git all the gravy.” 

For the first time the girl spoke, forestalling her 
father: “You mean that you would rather see us 
get the railroad’s money than Blodgett, and yet, 
you’re working for Blodgett?” 

“Sure, that’s what I mean. Old Blodgett’s got 
enough the way it is.” 

“You’re a kind-hearted man, aren’t you, Mr.— 
er, King?” 

The biting sarcasm of the tone was lost on the 


Sam King Pays a Visit 247 

boss. “Well, I like to do folks a good turn when I 
git the chanct, ’pedal pretty gals,” a fatuous grin 
accompanied the words. 

“And, you’re working for this railroad, too?” 

“Yes, I’m sort of locatin’ their right of way fer 

? ^ >> 
em. 

“You must be a valuable man to your employers,” 
continued the girl, in the same biting tone, “Or, 
didn’t it occur to you that a right of way through 
standing timber like ours would cost the company 
a great deal more than a right of way through the 
cut-over? Timber has to be paid for.” 

This time King caught the hostility of the tone. 
“Pretty smart, fer a gal, now, hain’t you? That’s 
what I like to see—smart women. Most of ’em lets 
the men do all the figgerin’. But the facts is, by us 
cuttin’ acrost your timber we could run the line 
around the big swamp north of here, an’ save twenty 
mile of fill. This here long fill would cost a good 
many times over what the short run acrost your 
timber would cost. So you see, I’m try in’ to save 
money fer the comp’ny an’ do you a good turn to 
boot.” 

The girl made no answer. She saw that she had 
been scored against, but intuitively she knew that the 
man was lying. 

“Ye’re the sicont wan av Blodgett’s min that’s 


248 


Without Gloves 


be’n snoopin' around here,” said MaeAlister, “Wuz 
th’ other wan a railroader, too?” 

‘‘Didn’t know they was anyone else,” replied King, 
eyeing the old man sharply, “Who was he, an’ what’d 
he want?” 

“Name’s Linerd. Claims he’s runnin’ a thractor, 
haulin’ logs fer Blodgett.” 

“Oh—him!” The girl was quick to note the hos¬ 
tility of the man’s tone. “What’d he want over 
here?” His eyes were on the face of the girl, as his 
lips framed the question. She felt the hot blood 
mount to her cheeks, and turned quickly to her 
shovelling. But not before King had taken note of 
the blush. 

“Claimed he wuz huntin’ deer the furst toime, an’ 
th’ nixt toime ut wuz to learn how we done th’ log- 
gin’ widout smashin’ th’ young stuff.” 

King laughed, harshly: “You want to keep yer 
eye on him. He’s old Blodgett’s right hand man. 
Anyone kin see he don’t know nothin’ about timber. 
But he’s smart, all right. Figger it out fer yerself. 
What’s old Blodgett got him up here fer ? He hain’t 
payin’ out no wages fer nothin’. Blodgett wants 
yer timber. He can’t buy it, so he’s got this feller 
up here to figger out how to git it without buyin’ it. 
He’s a slick article, all right. That tractor business 
is jest an excuse to git him into the woods.” The 


249 


Sam King Pays a Visit 

man paused with his eyes on the girl who was at¬ 
tacking the drift furiously: “An’ now he’s here, 
mebbe the timber hain’t the only thing he’s after.” 

MacAlister noted the glance: The little watery 
eyes blazed: “Ye mane-?” 

King shrugged: “Figger it out fer yourself. 
These here city fellers is mighty slick articles. An’ 
what the hell do they care fer us folks that lives in 
the woods?” 

The old Irishman shook a mittened fist in the face 
of the man on the drift: “Oi’ll have nothin’ to do 
wid Blodgett, nor none av his min! Th’ two av yez 
kin kape away from here! Av Oi ketch yez settin’ 
foot on my land agin they’ll be throuble! Be 
gone!” 

For answer, King grinned, and stepping closer, 
slipped a flat bottle from the inside pocket of his 
mackinaw. “No hard feelin’s Old Timer,” he said, 
“Here, take a pull at this an’ you’ll feel better.” 

“Dad!” cried the girl, sharply, as the old man 
reached for the bottle. 

“G’wan in th’ house, av ye can’t moind ye’re own 
business!” he commanded, “Wan little drink hurts 
no man av a cowld marnin’.” 

“Sure it don’t,” agreed King, who swallowed a 
liberal portion himself, before returning the bottle 
to his pocket, “I’ll be goin’, now, MacAlister. An’ 



250 


Without Gloves 


you’ll be knowin’ I be’n handin’ it to you straight— 
about this here railroad. They’ll be some men up 
here surveyin’ pretty quick. They’ll survey a place 
fer the bridge below yer rollway, there, an’ they’ll 
run a line through yer timber. They won’t hurt 
nothin’, an’ I’ll tell ’em to be careful of yer young 
stuff. Hadn’t ort to take ’em over a half a day to 
cross yer timber, an’ mind you, Blodgett hain’t got 
nothin’ to do with this. If the railroad cuts through 
it’s agin Blodgett.” 

“Oi’ll not be botherin’ th’ surveyors av they do no 
damage in runnin’ they’re line. Oi cudn’t shtop a 
railroad crossin’ me land av Oi wanted to. But av 
they do cross, moind yez, they’ll pay dear f’r th’ 
timber. O’i’ll belave ye’re a railroader win Oi see 
ye’re surveyors. An’ ye kin tell thot Linerd av Oi 
ketch him around here again, Oi’ll shoot um.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AT THE WATER HOLE 

With the approach of Christmas it became evi¬ 
dent that should both camps maintain their rate of 
cut, the Blodgett tract would be logged off by 
spring. Leonard found no time for another visit 
to the MacAlisters, for it required two trips a day, 
seven days in the week to keep Number Nine’s 
bank-ground clear of logs. And all the time he 
was learning logs. An hour here, or an hour there, 
while he was waiting for the loading or unloading 
of the huge sleds found him in the timber with the 
sawyers, or the skidders, or the swampers. And 
always, as he watched the ruinous methods of the 
loggers, he planned and schemed and figured how 
that particular block could have been worked to the 
best advantage. Nearly every evening, in the little 
office, he and big Tim Neely would talk and dream 
of a day to come when somehow, somewhere, some¬ 
time, they should be turned loose in a virgin forest 
with orders to log it to the best advantage. 


252 


Without Gloves 


“Strip loggin’ is best,” said Neely one evening 
as they sat close to the little air-tight and listened 
to the howling of the wind. “Two per cent of the 
timber laid down every year, an’ the strip cleaned 
up an’ replanted behind you. In fifty years you’d 
have it all cut, an’ the first year’s replantin’ ready 
to cut again. Then, the same thing right over an’ 
over an’ the timber’ll last fer ever.” 

“An’ that’s just what they’ll be doin’, sometime!” 
exclaimed Leonard, “The whole cut-over will be 
reforested.” 

Neely nodded: “Yes, but it’ll be the State or the 
Government that does it. They ain’t no private 
party has got sense enough to figger on profits fifty 
years ahead.” 

“But they’ll begin doin’ it before long,” asserted 
Leonard. “They ain’t always goin’ to set back an’ 
see all this here country goin’ to waste. An’ believe 
me, when they git at it, here’s one guy goin’ to help 
tackle the job. They’ll be needin’ men, an’ men 
that knows the game. It ain’t all goin’ to be easy 
sleddin’ for ’em. This here young stuff’s got to 
be raised from seed, an’ it’s got to be planted right, 
an’ set out right, an’ after it’s set out it’s got to be 
handled right. Fire’s got to be kep’ out, an’ disease 
has got to be kep’ out. Trees git sick like folks. 
An’ maybe fire’s et all the humus out of the soil, 


At the Water Hole 253 

an’ then the soil ain’t as wet as it use’ to be when 
the timber was on it. Believe me, the guy that can 
dope all this here stuff out an’ can find the answer 
to it, is the guy that’s goin’ to be the big noise in 
these here timber States one of these days.” 

Neely nodded: “That’s right, son. You jest 
keep right on keepin’ yer eyes open, an’ yer ears 
open, an’ a-readin’ them books you sent off fer, an’ 
someday you’ll begin to cash in on what you’ve 
learnt.” 

Leonard grinned: “They kid me a lot about them 
books over in the bunk house.” 

“Let ’em. They don’t know it, but it’s their- 
selves they’re kiddin’ not you. Where’d you find 
out about them books, anyhow? They’s a lot of 
good stuff in that one you loant me.” 

“She told me—Mary MacAlister. She’s read 
’em, an’ she let me copy the names, an’ told me 
where to send. That’s why I draw’d them thirty 
dollars a while back.” 

“That’s a sight of money to lay out fer books,” 
admitted Neely, “I didn’t know they come so high.” 

“Yes, but the way I look at it, if an eggication 
ain’t worth thirty dollars to a guy, it ain’t worth 
a damn. The thirty dollars is jest like an ante, 
in a jack-pot. If I lose, I don’t lose nothin’ but 
the thirty, an’ if I win, I win big. But, at that, 


254 


Without Gloves 


they’s a hell of a lot of work about it. It’s slow 
goin’. Trouble is, I never went to school no 
longer’n what I had to, an’ they’s a lot of them 
words an’ things I ain’t hep to. You can work it 
out, though, ’cause most of the books has got a 
kind of a dictionary in the back of ’em, an’ a guy 
can look the words up, an’ then look in the indexes 
of the other books an’ find out where it tells about 
that stuff. It’s slow work, but them books tell 
everythin’ a guy’s got to know about timber only 
it’s hell diggin’ it out. But I’m a-goin’ to hang to 
it till I know every damn’ thing about a pine tree 
from the time the cone hits the ground till the 
boards is nailed to a buildin’. An’ that reminds 
me, I’d ort to be to work right now.” 

“Where do you do all this here readin’,” asked 
Neely, as the other pulled on his cap. 

“I traded bunks with Frenchy up next to the 
end of the room, an’ I set a lantern on the wash 
bench an’ lay in the bunk an’ read till the words 
all gits to runnin’ together, then I blow out the 
lantern an’ go to sleep.” What he neglected to tell 
the boss was of the wonderful five minute interval 
that each evening intervened between the blowing 
out of the light and the falling to sleep—an interval 
of delicious fantasy, of big timber and a girl with 
violet eyes. 


At the Water Hole 


255 


On the day before Christmas, Tim Neely rode up 
with Leonard to Number Nine, and accosted Sam 
King on the skidway: “The boys has be’n hittin’ 
her up pretty stidy fer quite a spell, what do you 
say we give ’em a day tomorrow ?” 

Sam mouthed his quid and spat into the snow. 
“What’s the idee?” he asked. 

“Well, it’s Chris’mus, an’ I figgered we might 
kind of pull off a celebration of some kind. I kind 
of be’n figgerin’ on it fer a spell, an’ I sent out an’ 
ordered some extra grub fer Chris’mus dinner. It 
come in on the train this mornin’, a kag of oysters, 
an’ some cranberries, an’ a dressed hog. They’s 
enough so both crews kin fill up on fresh meat an’ 
oysters.” 

King grinned: “What’ll old ’Lijer say? I ain’t 
worked fer him long, but seems like I’ve heer’d tell 
how he’d skin a flea fer his hide an’ taller.” 

“Whatever he says he kin say it to me,” answered 
Neely, “I’ll take the blame, an’ if he don’t like the 
way I run his camp he kin git someone else.*’ 

“You mean you want me an’ the hull crew down 
to Number Eight fer to help eat this here grub?” 

“That’s it. You might send yer cook an’ cookee 
down about daylight fer to help out with the 
cookin’, an’ the rest of you come on down soon as 

ft 

you like. Tell a couple of yer top ax-men to bring 


256 


Without Gloves 


their axes, an we’ll pull off some choppin’ races, an’ 
ax-throwin’, an’ wrastlin’, an’ snowshoe an’ ski 
races, an’ such like. It’ll do the boys good.” 

“Suits me,” answered King, “I’ll have the boys 
bring down the phonygraft an’ we kin pull off a 
stag dance.” 

That evening at supper, Neely addressed his 
crew: “Boys,” he began, “that there box car that 
come in with the log flats has got a couple hundred 
sacks of oats, an’ twenty bar’ls of gasoline, in it, 
an’ likewise they’s a bag of cranberries, an’ a kag 
of oysters an’ a dressed hog. I’d like to git it 
partly onloaded tonight. The car’s spotted at the 
hay shed. You needn’t bother with the oats, nor 
the gasoline. Tomorrow’s Chris’mus, an’ we’re goin’ 

to take a day off-” The boss’s voice was 

drowned in the shout that greeted the announce¬ 
ment. When he could make himself heard, Neely 
continued. “Number Nine is cornin’ down to help 
us celebrate. I told King to have his top ax-men 
along, an’ we’d show ’em how to chop, an’ throw 
axes. Likewise we want to out-race ’em, an’ out- 
wrastle ’em, an’ show ’em that Number Eight is 
Blodgett’s top camp.” Yells of approval greeted 
the words. The meal was finished noisily, and with 
loud whoops and much rough horseplay, the men 
dispersed, the ax-men to the grind stones, and most 



At the Water Hole 


257 


of the others to the box car where they fought good- 
naturedly for the honour of carrying the grub to the 
cook shack. 

Immediately after breakfast the following morn¬ 
ing, Leonard fastened on his snowshoes, slipped 
into the timber, and headed for MacAlisters. He 
grinned as he found himself hurrying over the 
snow. “I don’t want to miss that there dinner, but 
they’s some things in them books I don’t make. She 
knows all about this here book stuff. Them eyes 
of hers is almost black sometimes. I’d like to see 
her dolled up in some swell rags onct. She’d make 
them painted-up molls look like somethin’ that had 
be’n left behind when the folks moved out. No, 
I’ll be damned if I would! I like her best the way 
she is.” 

Crossing the river, he paused and surveyed the 
roll way. “Must have dost to a hundred thousan’ 
feet banked a’ready,” he estimated, as he eyed the 
logs. “That would be about two hundred thousan’ 
fer the winter, an’ not so bad when you ain’t payin’ 
out only one man’s wages, an’ leavin’ yer woods in 
better shape than it was when you started.” 

As he neared the cabin the door opened and, 
water pail in hand, Mary MacAlister stepped out 
onto the snow. Leonard was about to call a greet¬ 
ing when the girl, motioning him to silence, hur- 


2 5 8 


Without Gloves 


ried toward him. “You must leave here—quickly/’ 
she said, as she reached his side. “Come with me 
to the river. He has threatened to shoot you, and 
if he should see you here—today, he might do it.” 

Leonard saw that her face was paler than usual, 
and that the violet eyes held a look of pain. 
“What’s the matter, kid?” he asked as a bend in 
the road carried them out of sight of the cabin. 
“Who’s goin’ to shoot me, an’ why? An’ what’s 
the matter with you? You look like you was in 
trouble of some kind. Tell me, kid—what’s 
wrong?” 

The sincerity of the man’s words, the genuine 
sympathy of his tone struck straight to the girl’s 
heart. Two big tears trembled for an instant upon 
the long lashes and rolled down her cheeks. She 
brushed them savagely away with the sleeve of her 
checked shirt. By the time the river was reached 
she had gained control of herself. At the water 
hole she halted. “Who’s Sam King?” she asked, 
abruptly. 

Leonard frowned: “So, he’s begun his work, has 
he? Well, don’t you worry, not fer a minute, kid. 
Me an’ Tim Neely’s keepin’ cases on him.” 

“What do you mean, begun his work? What 
work? He told us he was boss of Blodgett’s Num¬ 
ber Nine, but that his real work was locating a 


At the Water Hole 


259 

right of way for a railroad which will run from 
Thunder Head to connect with the M. & I.” 

Leonard grinned: “I don’t know nothin’ about 
no railroad, but the chances is he was lyin’. What 
Blodgett’s got him up here fer, is to git holt of 
your timber.” 

A hard laugh—unmirthful, issued from the girl’s 
lips: “That is exactly what he said about you.” 

“Me!” He took a step closer and looked search- 
ingly into the violet eyes. “You didn’t believe him, 
did you?” The girl detected a note of reproach 
in the words. For an instant she hesitated. The 
violet eyes faltered. 

“Oh, I don’t—don’t know what to believe! Dad 
believes him, and he has threatened to shoot you.” 

Leonard laid a mittened hand upon the sleeve of 
her shirt: “Listen here, kid. I don’t give a damn 
what he believes. What I’m carin’ about is—is— 
you. Do you believe I’m up here in the woods to 
gyp you out of your timber? Do you?” 

Slowly the girl shook her head: “No, I don’t be¬ 
lieve—I can’t believe—that.” 

The man’s fingers closed tightly upon her fore¬ 
arm : “Then it don’t make no difference what any¬ 
one else believes,” he said, earnestly. “Listen, kid. 
I ain’t always be’n on the level—but them days is 
past. They’s a lot of things I’m goin’ to tell you 


26 o 


Without Gloves 


some day—but not yet. I got to make good, first. 
But, don’t you worry none about that timber. Me an’ 
Tim Neely, we’re on the job. An’ when we tumble 
to King’s game, believe me we’ll knock him fer a 
gool” 

“Who’s Tim Neely?” 

“He’s boss of Number Eight, where I’m at. 
He’s as square a guy as ever swung an ax. It 
was him doped it out what old Blodgett had King 
up here fer, after I’d told him about your timber.” 

“Oh, but what can you do? What can anyone 
do against a man like Blodgett? He has millions 
and we have—nothing.” 

“Listen to me, kid. I’m yeller, I know. I ain’t 
got the nerve to stand up to a man with gloves on 
his mitts. But we’re playin’ this game without 
gloves, an’ if it comes to where I’ve got to, by God, 
I can set in the chair without yelpin’ while the guy 
presses the buzzer! Blodgett don’t git that timber 
—you can take it from me, he don’t!” 

“I—I don’t understand. What does yellow mean 
—and what is a buzzer? Oh, I wish-” 

A loud call from the direction of the cabin in¬ 
terrupted the girl. “Yes, Dad, I’m coming!” she 
answered, and spoke hurriedly to Leonard as she 
picked up the ax from the snow and chopped at the 
thin ice that had formed over the water hole: 



At the Water Hole 


261 


“Quick, you must go. He may come down to see 
what has delayed me. No, no, hurry!” as the man 
tried to relieve her of the ax. 

Leonard grinned: “I guess he won’t shoot no 
one. Anyway, we’ll find out. I’m goin’ back with 
you an’ tell him he’s tyin’ to the wrong guy. That 
there Sam King, he’s a bad actor.” 

“I know—but not—today! Please! He’s—Dad’s 
drinking and he might—shoot.” 

“Drinkin’!” exclaimed Leonard, “Where’d he 
git his booze at? Thought he didn’t keep none 
around the house.” 

“It’s that horrible Sam King, I know. Yesterday 
a lumberjack came through and handed Dad a pack¬ 
age—two quarts of liquor, and he’s drinking. Go, 
now,—please!” 

“I’ll go, kid, because you’re wantin’ me to. But, 
I’m cornin’ back. Don’t go worryin’ none about the 
timber. This here King, we’ll maybe have to let 
him go fer a while till we get hep to his lay. This 
here railroad stuff he’s be’n handin’ you is prob’ly 
all bull, but it might mean somethin’, at that. May¬ 
be Tim Neely can dope it out. You leave that part 
to us, kid. We’ll get hep to his grift, all right, an’ 
when the time comes, believe me, we’ll turn him up 
—an’ old Blodgett, too.” Leonard turned abruptly 
away and crossed the river. At the edge of the 


262 


Without Gloves 


woods he paused and looked back. Upon the op¬ 
posite bank stood the girl, water pail in hand, 
watching his departure. Her red and black checked 
shirt made a vivid splash of colour against the white 
snow. Leonard waved his hand, and the next 
moment the girl disappeared around a bend in the 
road to the cabin. 


CHAPTER XIX 


CHRISTMAS AT NUMBER EIGHT 

The dinner at Number Eight was an unqualified 
success. Leonard returned to the camp an hour 
before the repast to find festivities in full swing. 
Honours between the two camps were about even. 
A man from Number Nine had won the snowshoe 
race, and a big Swede from Number Eight annexed 
the ski running contest. Number Nine's top chop¬ 
per cut through a thirty-inch log ten seconds 
quicker than the best man Number Eight could 
produce, and Number Eight came back by winning 
the ax throw. The dinner call interrupted the 
wrestling bout, in which a husky giant from each 
camp had been trying in vain to throw the other 
“four points down” for a half-hour. 

Temporary tables of planks supplemented Num¬ 
ber Eight’s regular dining equipment, and for an 
hour the men gorged themselves, as plate after 
steaming plate disappeared before the onslaught. 

263 


264 


Without Gloves 


After dinner someone clamoured for a tug of war, 
and in lieu of a rope, log chains were hooked to¬ 
gether, and thirty picked men from each camp lined 
up for the pull. At a word from the starter the 
men surged back upon the chains, and for full ten 
minutes the long line weaved and shivered as each 
man strained and laboured, encouraged by the shouts 
of the men who ranged beside. Then, gradually, 
very gradually, the long line moved endwise, amid 
wild shouts and whoops of encouragement from 
the men of Number Nine. For Number Eight was 
slipping. In vain the men under the leadership of 
big Tim Neely laid back on the chain, redoubling 
their efforts to stop that irresistible forward motion. 
The motion became faster as footholds gave way 
and hand holds slipped on the chain, until, gather¬ 
ing momentum with each second, the men of Num¬ 
ber Eight were dragged across the line. 

The wrestling match was resumed and the early 
darkness was beginning to make itself felt when 
Number Nine’s champion, caught unaware, suc¬ 
cumbed to a hammer-lock and settled with a grunt 
of exhaustion into the snow. 

In the bunk house the big swinging lamps were 
lighted. Someone turned on the phonograph, and 
the men of the two crews crowded the deacon seats 
and the edges of the bunks. 


Christmas at Number Eight 265 

“Take off that talkin’ piece an’ give us a dance 
tune!” demanded a swamper, executing a ponderous 
shuffle on the board floor. 

Andy Moore, a big sawyer from Camp Nine, 
with a record around Duluth and Superior for bar¬ 
room brawling, stepped onto the floor and bellowed 
forth his challenge: “Y’all be’n foot-racin’, an’ 
throwin’ axes, an’ yankin’ on chains all day to see 
which is the top camp, an’ y’ain’t found out. Y’ain’t 
tried nothin’ that amounts to nothin’. They ain’t 
only one way fer to find out which is the top camp, 
an’ likewise to find out who’s the champeen of both 
camps. Come on, now, you Number Eighter’s! 
Pick out the best man y’got an’ shove him out here 
on the floor. We’ll have a ginuyne stand-up-an’- 
knock-down-an’-drag-out, with jack-buck mittens 
on our dukes. That’ll show who’s the best man! 
Bring on yer fightin’ man! I’m the champeen of 
Michigan, an’ Westconsin, an’ Minnesoty!” In¬ 
flamed by his own words the man stamped heavily 
up and down before the deacon seats bawling forth 
his challenge as he clumsily swung his huge fists in 
the faces of the men. 

Seated between old Pap Hickman and the top 
loader, Shirly Leonard listened to the man’s boast¬ 
ing, as his critical eye took in the ungainly bulk of 
him, the heavy arms that swung like flails from 


266 


Without Gloves 


thick shoulders, the thick, awkward legs, and the 
thick belly that bulged at the belt line where the 
two top buttons of his trousers had been loosened 
to facilitate the gorging of the Christmas feast. 
The trained eye of the ex-pugilist took in these 
details at a glance, and a mighty contempt for the 
beefy giant surged within him. He knew to a 
certainty that anyone with a semblance of speed, 
and foot work, and training in the placing of blows 
could make a fool of the man in three minutes. 
A plan of fight that would bring the huge bulk 
crashing to the floor flashed through his brain with 
the rapidity of light. His fists clenched and in¬ 
voluntarily he moved slightly forward on his seat. 
Then the narrowed eyes and hate-curled lips of Kid 
Morowitz flashed to mind. The sickening sensa¬ 
tion of the rocking, heaving canvas ring as the 
droning voice of the referee counted—eight—nine 
—ten! The howls, and jibes, and hisses of the 
crowd, and the cries of “Yellow”—yes, that was 
it, he was yellow. He could knock this man out to 
a certainty—but he did not dare to stand up and 
face him. “Yellow!” He himself knew it. The 
fight fans knew it. And the men of the two camps 
knew it. He settled back upon the deacon seat, but 
not before his movement had been noted by the 
stamping swashbuckler: “Haw, haw, haw! The 


Christmas at Number Eight 267 

greener wants to try his hand! Come on, greener ! 
Don’t hold him back, boys. He wants to git at 
Andy Moore—an’ they’re tellin’ how he didn’t have 
the guts to tie into Tommy Kirgan on the rollway! 
Better say yer prayers first, greener, ’cause when I 
git at you I’ll jist na’ch’ly spatter you all over the 
wall!” 

“Spatter me, then!” The words cut sharply upon 
the surcharged air as Number Eight’s top loader 
rose from his seat beside Leonard and faced the 
big man upon the floor. A yell of acclaim from the 
men of Number Eight filled the room. “A fight!” 
“A fight!” “Knock him cold, Sim!” “It’s a long 
drag back to Number Nine!” 

Neely started to protest, but Sam King inter¬ 
rupted : “Let ’em go, Neely,” he grinned, “every¬ 
one’s sober. They won’t be no hard feelin’s. Let 
’em fight. We’ll do it up regular, jest like a prize 
fight with three-minute rounds. You be referee 
an’ I’ll be time-keeper.” 

The suggestion met the unqualified approval of 
the men and Neely assented. Heavy jack-buck 
mittens, riveted at the thumbs, were produced, and 
as he slipped his hands into them, the top loader 
taunted the man from Number Nine: “Champeen 
of Michigan an’ Westconsin, you might be, but you 
tuk in too much territory, Moore. The only part 


268 


Without Gloves 


of Minnesoty you’re champeen of, is mebbe Min- 
nesoty Point!” A roar of laughter greeted the 
words, and the fight was on. 

Moore had the advantage of weight, but Sim 
Coughlan, the top loader, was something of a 
fighter, himself. Knowing nothing of boxing, nor 
of expert foot work, the two stood toe to toe and 
exchanged vicious swings for each other’s faces, 
not one blow in ten getting past the upraised fore¬ 
arms. For two minutes the slugging match went 
on before both contestants paused for breath. Blood 
was trickling from Moore’s nose, and the flesh about 
Coughlan’s right eye was swelling visibly. For half 
a minute the two stood breathing heavily before 
the battle was renewed, this time more warily, each 
contestant milling slowly around to obtain some 
fancied advantage of light or position. Cries of 
advice and encouragement were called from bunks 
and deacon seats: “Slug him in the chin!” “Paste 
him in the nose!” “Black his lamps!” But no 
further blow was struck, and the milling ceased 
abruptly as the voice of Sam King sounded above 
the cries of advice: “Time!” 

At the word Leonard dived for the water pail, 
and the next moment Coughlan was pushed gently 
onto the deacon seat while the greener dabbled at 
his swelling eye with a handkerchief soaked in cold 


Christmas at Number Eight 269 

water. Also the greener was whispering words of 
advice into his ears, words which sounded strangely 
professional and technical, and the meaning of 
which was not at all clear: “Listen, Sim, play fer 
his wind. You got him. Keep on swingin’ fer 
his face, but land on his stumick. Work fast. He 
ain’t got no speed—nothin’ but beef. Feint, so 
he’ll keep his guard up, an’ then land on his 
stumick!” 

“Round Number Two—Time!” called King, and 
again the men faced each other on the floor. This 
round was opened by Moore with a bull-like charge 
which Coughlan met with a couple of heavy blows 
that landed harmlessly upon Moore’s upraised fore¬ 
arm. Coughlan had made no effort to avoid the 
rush, and as the two heavy bodies came together in 
a clinch, the momentum carried them against a 
deacon seat which promptly tipped over with all 
hands, at the same time tripping the contestants so 
that all sprawled together upon the floor. 

Neely rushed in to separate the fighters: “No 
rough an’ tumble!” he cried, tugging at the arms 
of the men who were seeking to pommel each other 
at close quarters, “Stand-up-an’-knock-down!” 

As the men regained their feet Sam King again 
called time, and again Leonard whispered rapidly 
into Coughlan’s ear: “Keep out of his way. Side- 


270 


Without Gloves 


step him, an’ land on his stumick! You had him 
that time if you’d of landed like I told you. One or 
two good punches an’ his guard’ll come down, then 
land on his jaw. Remember, now, the stumick— 
then the jaw!” 

“Third round. Time!” announced King, and 
once more the men faced each other upon the floor. 
Evidently bent upon finishing the fight in the short¬ 
est possible time, Moore rushed again. This time, 
however, Coughlan stepped aside, and as Moore 
turned, his left arm crooked to guard his face, and 
his right arm drawn back for a mighty swing, the 
words of the greener flashed into Cloughan’s mind. 
He had never heard of anyone trying for the 
stomach in a stand-up-and-knock-down fight, the 
technique of the log woods calling for the visible 
battering of the face. However, here was his 
chance, and summoning all his force he sent a long 
right swing full into the exposed paunch of his 
antagonist. The effect of the blow was almost 
magical, the air whistled from Moore’s throat in a 
great sighing grunt. His arms sagged weakly away 
from his face whose open mouth and staring eyes 
made a picture of pained surprise. He swayed 
slightly at the knees. “Give him another! Finish 
him up!” the voice of the greener cut loud and 
clear, and Coughlan struck once, twice. The first 


Christmas at Number Eight 271 

blow landed again on the stomach, and the second 
full on the face, and without a sound, the self- 
acclaimed “champeen” spun half way around and 
crashed to the floor where he lay until he was 
lifted onto a bunk and brought to by some of his 
cronies. 

“Seems like you know a hell of a lot about fightin' 
fer a man that won’t fight,” growled Sam King, 
as he paused before Leonard’s seat and returned 
the watch to his pocket. 

Old Pap Hickman laughed, a dry, cackling laugh: 
“Know’d ’nough ’bout it to put yer champeen of 
the world to sleep, didn’t he, Sam? You can’t beat 
us Number Eighters.” 

“Why didn’t he do his own fightin’?” demanded 
King. 

“You know all about swimmin’, don’t you, Sam?” 
queried Pap, with an aggravating grin. 

“Swimmin’! What in hell’s swimmin’ got to do 
with it?” 

“The crick don’t freeze, an’ they’s a deep hole 
down back of the stables. You kin go swimmin’ 
there if you want to.” 

“What in hell’s ailin’ you? You crazy?” 

“No, but that’s like the greener, here. A man 
hain’t got to be doin’ a thing jist ’cause he knows 
how to.” The men who crowded the deacon seat 


272 


Without Gloves 


laughed uproariously, and the foreman of Number 
Nine moved on, growling about an old fool, leav¬ 
ing Pap Hickman mouthing his pipe and chuckling. 

As Neely had feared, the men of Number Nine 
were taking the defeat of their champion surlily. 
From all about the room as they drew on their 
mackinaws, growls and angry retorts greeted the 
merciless kidding and joshing of the men of Num¬ 
ber Eight. It looked like trouble, and Neely real¬ 
ized there was nothing he could do to avert it. 
Leaning against the stanchion of a bunk, he wished 
the men would hurry their departure, as he prepared 
to check the first outbreak of violence. Angry re¬ 
tort followed malicious jibe, until it seemed that 
nothing in the world could prevent the bunk house 
from becoming the scene of a free for all man 
fight. 

Then suddenly the atmosphere cleared of all 
thought of fight. The door burst open and a team¬ 
ster hurtled into the room with the cry of “Fire!” 

On every hand men scrambled for caps and mack¬ 
inaws. “The hay shed,” imparted the teamster, 
between gasps for breath. “My lantern busted! I 
tried to fight it, but the wind’s too strong, blowin’ 
the fire right agin’ that car of gasoline!” The word 
“gasoline” passed swiftly from lip to lip as the 
men crowded through the doorway. In the direc- 


Christmas at Number Eight 273 

tion of the stables the clearing was already alight 
with flames. Force of habit carried them half way 
across the clearing in their first rush from the bunk 
house. Then the portent of the word “gasoline” 
seemed suddenly to percolate their intelligence. The 
rush wavered as men halted and turned back. “The 
hull camp’s a goner!” “When that car lets go, 
she’ll scatter fire a half a mile!” “We’ll be covered 
with blazin’ gasoline an’ burnt to a cinder!” The 
rush toward the flaming hay shed stopped. In 
every direction men were scattering for the edges 
of the clearing. A few wavered uncertainly, to 
stare in fascination at the wind-fanned flames that 
were whirling and leaping about the box-car. 

Leonard, Sim Coughlan, and old Pap Hickman 
ran at the heels of big Tim Neely. At the little 
knot of wavering men, the big boss paused: “Come 
on, boys!” he cried, “there’s enough of us here to 
shove that car to hell!” 

“An’ git blow’d to hell doin’ it!” retorted Sam 
King. 

“It would be your chanct to go in good com¬ 
pany!” snapped Neely, “Come on, boys! There’s 
some of us has got red guts instead of rotgut in¬ 
side of us! We ain’t afraid of a little fire!” 

At the words, Pap Hickman, Coughlan and an¬ 
other, fell in behind the boss. Leonard turned and 


Without Gloves 


2 74 

ran in the opposite direction. For just an instant 
the men paused to watch the fleeing figure. Sam 
King laughed aloud, and turning, made for the 
shelter of the timber. Coughlan cursed under his 
breath, and old Pap Hickman chuckled. As they 
passed the empty flats, the top loader shouldered 
a pinch-bar. 

“The roof’s beginnin’ to burn!” cried Hickman, 
pointing to the little red flames that licked at the 
edges of the car roof. But the roar of the flames 
in the hay shed drowned his words. 

Neely sprang for the ladder at the end of the 
car: “I’ll let off the brakes!” he shouted. “You 
boys shove!” A bright light, brighter, whiter than 
the red light of the flaming hay, shot across the 
rolling smoke clouds, accompanied by a noise that 
drowned the crackling of the flames. The men 
turned to see the tractor rounding the blazing hay 
shed. “My God!” cried Coughlan, “he can’t git 
through there! It’ll cook him!” 

“Go back! Go back!” yelled Neely, dancing about 
on top of the car, but the tractor came on, and the 
next moment was lost in a sheet of smoke and 
flame that whipped around the corner of the shed. 
The next instant it reappeared, and without stop¬ 
ping, cut around the end of the car, and took its 
place on the track. With a whoop, the third man 


Christmas at Number Eight 275 

who had followed Neely, seized the chain that 
dragged at the tractor’s draw-bar, and made it fast 
to the box-car. Shielding himself as best he could 
from the flames, Coughlan set his pinch-bar beneath 
a wheel. The brake-shoes slackened creakily. “Let 
her go!” roared Neely, and clambering down the 
ladder, he placed his shoulder to a wheel. The 
tractor’s exhaust roared. Coughlan bore down on 
his pinch-bar. The men pushed and strained. And 
the car moved! Slowly at first, then faster, until 
it was clear of the flaming shed. A hundred feet 
down the track, Neely applied the brakes, while 
Coughlan and the others chocked the wheels. The 
tractor came to a halt, and all hands attacked the 
blazing roof of the car with snow. It was but the 
work of a few minutes to extinguish the blaze, and 
when the last spark went black, the men stood and 
grinned into each other’s faces. 

“Where’s the other feller?” asked Neely, glancing 
about him. 

As if in answer to the question, a man stepped 
round the corner of the car. It was Andy Moore, 
and his grin was the broadest grin of all as Cough¬ 
lan gripped his hand. “Well—I’ll be damned,” 
quoth Coughlan, as his other hand came to rest on 
Leonard’s shoulder. 

“We couldn’t of made it without the ingyne, 


276 


Without Gloves 


greener,” said Moore, and turned abruptly to Neely. 
“Say, boss, if I should happen to quit up to Number 
Nine would you give me a job? I kind of like the 
work down here better, an’ besides they’s a few 
things about this here fightin’ game I want to learn 
if the greener’ll wise me up to ’em.” 

Neely laughed: “Try it an’ see,” he said. “I 
don’t never hire men ofFn another man’s crew— 
but if a man should happen to quit—that’s dif¬ 
ferent.” 


CHAPTER XX 

THE NEW FOREMAN 

Less than a week after Christmas three men 
stepped from the caboose of the log train at Num¬ 
ber Eight and inquired for Sam King. One man 
carried a tripod and a black case, another a sliding 
rod fitted with a painted target, and three pairs of 
snowshoes, while the third carried a thin metal 
chain and a huge suitcase. Neely forwarded them 
to Number Nine, via an empty log sled behind 
Leonard’s tractor. 

“Surveyin’ ?” asked the greener, by way of 
friendly conversation, as the outfit moved slowly 
up the log road. 

“No, not exactly,” answered the man with the 
tripod, “Going to run some levels.” 

“Railroad?” 

“No, I don’t know exactly what is wanted. Mr. 
Blodgett told us to report to King for instructions. 


277 


278 Without Gloves 

He wants to determine the fall of some river, I 
suppose.” 

Leonard mulled the information in his mind but 
it meant nothing to him, and he decided to try 
again: “Must be a nice job,” he opined, “Wisht 
I had a job like that instead of runnin’ this here 
damn’ tractor.” 

The men laughed. “I guess everyone feels at 
times as though he would like to have the other 
fellow’s job,” said the one who had answered the 
first question, “but our work is no cinch, ramming 
around the woods with the snow belly-deep to a 
giraffe, digging down to hard ground to set up, 
and pulling off your mittens to adjust your instru¬ 
ment.” 

“Guess that’s right, at that,” admitted Leonard. 
“An’ what’s it good fer when you get it done?” 

“Well,” smiled the man, “if you were figuring 
on putting in a dam you would have to determine 
first the fall of the river. Then you could tell how 
high to build the dam, and how much land would 
be flooded by your pool” 

“That’s right,” admitted Leonard, and imme¬ 
diately turned the conversation into other channels. 

That night in the little office he asked abruptly 
of Neely: “What would old Blodgett be puttin’ in 
a dam fer?” 


The New Foreman 


279 


“A dam? Where?” 

“On the river, of course. Where in hell else 
would a guy build a dam.” 

“What makes you think he’s goin’ to put in a 
dam?” 

“Them guys that rode up to Number Nine with 
me says Blodgett sent ’em up here to run levels. 
Said they didn’t know what fer, but prob’ly it was 
to tell the fall of the river so’s old Blodgett could 
tell how high to make his dam, an’ how much coun¬ 
try it would flood over. Said they was to get 
orders from King.” 

Neely pondered the information for some time. 
Then suddenly he slapped his leg with his palm: 
“I bet that’s what his game is, all right!” 

“Who’s game, an’ what is it?” 

“Blodgett’s or Sam King’s, most likely. That’s 
what Blodgett hired him fer.” 

“I don’t make you.” 

“Didn’t I tell you I figgered Blodgett hired King 
to come up here an’ Agger a way to beat MacAlister 
out of his timber? Well, onct Blodgett gits a dam 
in, he’s as good as got MacAlister’s timber.” 

“How’s that?” 

Without answering, Neely asked another ques¬ 
tion: “You’ve been into MacAlister’s timber, how 
high does it lay above the river?” 


280 


Without Gloves 


“What do you mean, how high?” 

“The ground—is it high ground—hilly? Or does 
it lay like this tract, kind of flat an' level?” 

“Yes, that’s the way it lays. The bank you go 
up at the landin’ ain’t over three or four foot high.” 

Neely nodded: “I thought so. King, he’s be’n 
over there,’ too. S’pose Blodgett would put in a 
dam jest below MacAlister. What would happen? 
He’d flood MacAlister out, wouldn’t he?” 

“Sure he would,” agreed Leonard, “But-” 

“But what?” 

“He’d flood his own self out, too. This here 
land don’t lay no higher than what MacAlister’s 
does.” 

Neely grinned: “They can’t build this here dam 
till summer. What’ll be left on this tract for 
Blodgett to flood? Nothin’ but a lot a slash.” 

“But, hell!” cried Leonard, “ain’t there no laws? 
A man ain’t got a right to dam up a river an’ flood 
everyone out of the country, has he?” 

“Sure there’s laws. But Blodgett will git the 
law on his side. All he’s got to do is to git a bill 
through the legislature permittin’ him to dam the 
Wild Goose River. Then he puts up a bond that 
he’ll pay all the claims for damages.”' 

“Then, he’d have to pay MacAlister fer his tim¬ 
ber, is that right?” 


The New Foreman 


' 281 


“Yup.” 

Leonard pondered the situation for several min¬ 
utes while the boss watched him out of the corner 
of his eye. Suddenly, the greener looked up: “But 
say,” he cried, “who figgers out what he’s got to 
pay? MacAlister?” 

Neely laughed: “I was jest wonderin’ if you’d 
overlook that. That’s where the steal comes in. 
No, MacAlister ain’t got nothin’ to say about it. 
They’s three men app’inted by the court. Ap¬ 
praisers, they call ’em. MacAlister picks out one, 
an’ Blodgett picks out one, an’ them two picks out 
the other one. They go over the ground an’ figger 
what the damages is.” 

“How do they figger the damages?” 

“Cruise the timber an’ figger out th’ stumpage.” 

“But, hell, man!” cried Leonard, “That ain’t 
no way to figger that piece of timber! Look at the 
way it’s be’n handled! An’ look at the young 
stuff! Would they make Blodgett pay for the 
young stuff same as the big sticks?” 

“You ort to know by this time, what loggin’ men 
thinks of young stuff,” answered Neely. 

For a long time Leonard was silent, and when 
he spoke, it was as much to himself, as to the boss. 
“He’s be’n a long time workin’ that timber. He’s 
got young stuff cornin’ along that’s better’n six 


282 


Without Gloves 


inches through, that was seedlin’s he set out in 
them back strips. An’ the big stuff stands thicker 
today than it stands right here where it ain't never 
be’n touched. It’s what he’s laid by fer her —that 
young stuff is—an’ by God, she’s goin’ to have it! 
They won’t be no dam on Wild Goose, Neely, but 
how we goin’ to stop it?” 

The boss knocked the ashes from his pipe against 
the corner of the stove. “Maybe we can’t stop it,” 
he answered. “Anyway, we’ve got quite a little 
time to figger it out. It might be we’ll have to 
make a trip to St. Paul.” 

“I’d make a trip to hell to save her timber,” said 
Leonard, as he drew on his cap and mittens, “But 
if I do old Blodgett’ll go along with me.” 

“Best to do it accordin’ to law,” advised Neely. 

“Law’s all right if it works,” admitted Leonard, 
“If it don’t, then we got to try some other way,” 
and opening the door, he stepped out into the star¬ 
lit clearing. 

Two weeks later the three level men came out 
of the woods, and again Leonard tried to engage 
them in casual conversation, but their answers were 
brief and evasive. Evidently they had been advised 
not to talk. 

January passed without Leonard’s finding time 
to visit MacAlister’s cabin. One morning early in 


The New Foreman 


283 


February, Elija Blodgett himself stepped from the 
logging train and proceeding at once to Number 
Nine, spent the night there. Late the following 
afternoon, he returned to Number Eight, and after 
supper retired with Neely to the little office. 

By way of opening the conversation Blodgett ex¬ 
pressed approval of the progress made in the tim¬ 
ber. “You have done very well, Neely, very well,” 
he said, rubbing his bony hands together close to 
the stove. “Another sixty days will see the last of 
the timber on the cars, and the price is still mount¬ 
ing, Neely, still mounting.” 

“That’s good,” the boss replied. “Yes, sixty days 
will see the finish. Then I s’pose you’ll be tacklin’ 
the back tract next winter.” 

“Just so, Neely, just so. And it was to arrange 
for that that I came up here. A terrible trip, Neely, 
at this time of year—a most uncomfortable and 
disagreeable journey.” 

“Well, they don’t run no Pullmans on this loggin’ 
spur,” admitted the boss with a grin, “But cabooses 
ain’t so bad, when you git use’ to ’em. Looks like 
you could of waited till spring, though, if you ain’t 
figgerin’ on goin’ into the back tract till next fall.” 

“And so I could, Neely, so I could, if it were 
not for the fact that the back tract offers very excep¬ 
tional difficulties in the matter of getting the logs 


284 


Without Gloves 


to the mills. It is, as you know, completely sur¬ 
rounded by a very considerable swamp, and were 
we forced to extend the railroad through this 
swamp, the expense would be prohibitive.” Neely 
was about to interrupt, but Blodgett motioned him 
to silence: “Just a moment, Neely, just a moment. 
As I say, it was this that induced me to undertake 
this trip into the woods. And, now, before we 
proceed further, and to avoid needless repetition of 
instructions, I will ask you to select a man from 
the crew who may be depended upon to stand loyally 
by us. He must be a man of rather more than 
ordinary intelligence, a man capable of offering 
testimony—a-hem, according to instructions, before 
a legislative committee. Is there such a man in 
the crew, Neely.” 

“Yes, there’s one that I’d figger would fill the 
bill. His name’s Leonard. He’s the tractor man.” 

“The tractor man!” exclaimed Blodgett, in sur¬ 
prise, “Why, he is a green hand. Never been in 
the woods before, and knows nothing at all of tim¬ 
ber, or of conditions.” 

“Don’t fool yerself, Mr. Blodgett,” grinned the 
boss, “He was green when he come into the woods 
this fall, but he ain’t no green hand, now. There 
ain’t no part of the job except the cookin’ that he 
ain’t got holt of. He’s the smartest lad I ever had 


285 


The New Foreman 

in the woods, an’ he knows more about timber to¬ 
day than most of ’em that’s worked in the woods 
all their life. An’ when he tackles a thing he sees 
it through—jest remember that, Mr. Blodgett, when 
the greener starts a thing he sees it through. Kep’ 
three mile of log road open by runnin’ his tractor 
up an’ down it fer forty hours to a stretch with the 
snow flyin’ so thick he couldn’t see ten foot in front 
of him with the headlight lit.” 

‘‘Seems to be just the man we want. Bring him 
in here, Neely, and I will give you your instruc¬ 
tions.” 

A few moments later Leonard followed the boss 
into the office where Blodgett greeted him with a 
patronizing smile: “Ah, young man, Neely tells 
me that you have acquitted yourself very credibly, 
in fact, that you have shown extraordinary aptitude 
for the work. It is becoming harder year by year 
to find among the younger generation, a man who 
is willing to go into the woods and learn logging 
in the camps. Plenty of white-collar loggers who 
want to learn the business through the office, but 
few who will go into the timber. Just remember 
that hard work and loyalty to your employer will 
soon put you to the top, my boy. You will find 
that you have lost nothing by your diligence. I 
still have timber to cut, as Neely can tell you, and 


286 


Without Gloves 


it is in connection with that timber that I am here. 
I want two men from this camp to offer certain 
testimony before a legislative committee. Neely will 
of course be one, and we have selected you for the 
other. I may add that the matter in hand will 
involve a trip to St. Paul, with of course, all your 
expenses paid, and—er—extra compensation, in the 
nature of a—er—bonus, we will say, which will, in 
effect, double your wages for the winter. Does 
the proposition appeal to you?” 

“Le’s see if I make you. What you’re tryin’ to 
say is, how’d I like to hit the rattler fer St. Paul, 
an’ grab off a bunch of extry jack fer boostin’ yer 
game to this here committee. All right, I’m on. 
What’s the lay?” 

Blodgett stared at the speaker, and Neely 
laughed: “It’s jest his way of speakin’, Mr. Blod¬ 
gett. He’s got a kind of funny lingo but after you 
git use’ to it you kin kind of figger out what he’s 
drivin’ at. He says the proposition suits him fine.” 

“Extraordinary, Neely, most extraordinary. I 
can scarcely follow him. I wonder whether the 
committee-” 

“You mean,” interrupted Leonard, “yer afraid 
them guys won’t make me ? Don’t you worry, Cap, 
I’ll put it acrost. I never seen no one yet I couldn’t 
talk to. Le’s git down to cases.” 



The New Foreman 


287 


A thin smile played about Blodgett’s lips: “Extra¬ 
ordinary, but at least unique. In fact, it may have 
a very good effect. A little humour at times is a 
valuable asset.” 

Neely grinned: “They won’t git the kind of talk 
out of him they’re expectin’.” 

“Quite so, Neely, quite so. And now if you will 
give me your attention, I will outline my plans and 
instruct you in the line of testimony which will be 
necessary in the furtherance of our undertaking. 
I may say here that Samuel King will be our prin¬ 
cipal witness and you will be guided in a great 
measure by his testimony which you are to corrob¬ 
orate. 

“As you know, of course, this tract will be logged 
off by spring. My other holdings are in what is 
known as the back tract, a very good stand of tim¬ 
ber, but at present inaccessible. The cost of a rail¬ 
road across the swamps would be too great to 
attempt.” 

“Why don’t you drive the stuff down the Wild 
Goose?” interrupted Neely, “I cruised that timber 
fer you, you mind, a couple of years back, an’ I 
come out down the river in a canoe. She kin be 
drove all right.” 

Blodgett frowned: “That is exactly what I am 
planning to do—drive the river. But, remember 


288 


Without Gloves 


this,” he paused and glanced meaningly into the eyes 
of the boss, “In its present condition the Wild 
Goose can not be driven. That is the important 
thing to be remembered.” 

“Sure it can’t,” admitted Neely, “an’ neither 
could any other stream that size that I ever heard 
tell of. She’s got to be cleaned up—snags blow’d 
out, down stuff cut out, an’ some timber booms put 
in. A good crew could clean her up in fifty or 
sixty days.” 

Blodgett’s frown deepened. “You are not a river- 
man, Neely. Your judgment in this matter must 
defer to mine. As a matter of fact the Wild Goose 
cannot be driven, nor can it be cleaned up for driv¬ 
ing, for the reason that it is too shallow. That is 
one thing you must both remember. The river 
cannot be driven, nor can it be put in condition 
to drive without the construction of a dam. I 
have had engineers engaged in running the levels 
and their reports show that the average fall of 
the river is so slight that a dam constructed, 
say at a point about opposite here, would raise 
the water to a sufficient height for driving my 
timber.” 

“Raise the water back to your timber!” cried 
Neely. “You mean clean to the back tract? Why, 
Mr. Blodgett, as slow as the Wild Goose runs, an’ 


The New Foreman 289 

as low banks as it’s got, you’d spread water over half 
of Minnesoty.” 

Blodgett’s frown changed to an icy smile: “I 
have been at some expense, Neely, quite some ex¬ 
pense, in procuring the introduction of a bill in the 
legislature permitting the building of a dam at a 
certain point on the Wild Goose River. The bill 
in question has had its reading, and has been re¬ 
ferred to the proper committee. That committee 
will hold a hearing on this matter in the State 
Capitol at ten o’clock next Tuesday morning. It is 
very important that this matter receive favourable 
action in committee. I am assured that should the 
House Committee report the bill favourably the Sen¬ 
ate Committee will indorse it without further hear¬ 
ing. Everything will therefore depend upon our 
being able to convince that House Committee that 
this dam is essential for getting the timber from 
the back tract to the mills. 

“The demand for timber incident to the war, 
which you undoubtedly know, is going sorely 
against the allied nations which are our friends, 
makes it the patriotic duty of every man who calls 
himself an American to do his utmost to produce 
lumber. This urgent demand for lumber will be a 
strong factor in the passage of this bill. The com¬ 
mittee will consider its recommendation an act of 


290 


Without Gloves 


patriotism, which in fact, it will be. Therefore, 
your testimony must be in effect that such dam is 
essential.” 

“But, you can’t hold enough water back the way 
the land lays to raise the river at the back tract,” 
objected Neely. 

“A fact, Neely, of which I am well aware, and 
a fact, also with which you need not concern your¬ 
self. Nothing will be said about the back tract, 
except to introduce your own figures as to the 
amount of standing timber. I am asking nb man 
to perjure himself. In fact, I should not for a 
moment tolerate false swearing. In order that you 
need have no compunctions as to swearing that the 
dam will raise the water level at my holdings, I 
have purchased a narrow strip of timber, bordering 
upon the river from this tract clear to the back tract. 
The fact is that now my timber reaches down to 
within a half mile above the proposed dam-site, 
and you certainly know that a ten-foot dam will 
raise the water to that point.” 

“Do you call tamarack swamp timber?” asked 
Neely. 

“Yes, standing timber, of course. What else is 
it?” 

The boss sniffed contemptuously, “Where is the 
dam goin’ in?” he asked. 


The New Foreman 


291 


“The location of the dam will be the north line 
of section ten, at a point where the river cuts 
through a low ridge which will also serve as the 
wall of the pool.” 

“Section ten,” repeated Neely. “That would be 
just about MacAlister’s lower line. Maybe you 
ain’t heard of Paddy MacAlister, an’ his timber, 
Mr. Blodgett?” 

“What about it?” Blodgett’s eyes narrowed per¬ 
ceptibly. 

“Why this here MacAlister, he’s got three quar¬ 
ters jest acrost the river from here that’s mighty 
fine timber, so they say. He’s be’n workin’ it, kind 
of nursin’ it along fer better’n twenty year. The 
way the land lays through here, a ten-foot dam on 
the north line of section ten would put his land 
about six foot under water. If you’d put in yer 
dam above, now—say ” 

“Neely,” Blodgett’s voice held a note of flinty 
hardness. “I didn’t come up here to ask you, but 
to tell you what to do. As a matter of fact, I have 
had competent advice upon the location of this dam. 
As you may, or may not know, Samuel King has 
had much experience in handling logs on the 
streams of Northern Minnesota. It was more to 
secure his services in the matter of locating this 
dam, than running Number Nine that I hired him. 



292 


Without Gloves 


His judgment is that the dam should be located 
on the north line of section ten, and that judgment 
was corroborated by the engineers who ran the 
levels. If there are small property holders who will 
be damaged by the building of the dam they have 
their recourse in the courts. I shall, of course, be 
required to put up bonds of a sufficient amount to 
cover such damage. The amount of such loss to 
small property holders will be fairly determined by 
disinterested appraisers, and I stand ready to abide 
by their decision.” 

“But the appraisers won’t figger in nothin’ but 
merchantable timber. That’s all right in some cases, 
but not this one. This here MacAlister, he’s 
farmin’ timber, not skinnin’ the land, but farmin’ 
it. He’s strip loggin’, an’ he’s got young stuff 
cornin’ on that’s worth as much as his big stuff, 
an’ besides that he’s worked his standin’ stuff till 
it’s a better stand today than it was when he took 
holt of it. Floodin’ his land will kill all that young 
stuff, an’ the appraisers won’t take no account of 
it. It ain’t right, Mr. Blodgett. An’ I’m wonderin’ 
if MacAlister’s be’n notified of this here committee 
meetin’ so he kin be there an’ give his side of it!” 

The blood had flooded Blodgett’s face and re¬ 
ceded, leaving it livid with rage: “Neely!” he 
cried, “You forget yourself! Do you presume to 


The New Foreman 


293 


intimate to my face that I have any ulterior motive 
in the placing of this dam? To dictate business 
ethics to me?” 

Neely rose to his feet and faced his employer. 
“I don’t know nothin’ about what kind of motors 
you got or ain’t got—an I don’t give a damn! But 
I ain’t fergittin’ myself, none whatever. I’m re¬ 
memberin’ myself so good that I’m histin’ my 
turkey right here an’ now. You kin git someone 
else to run yer camp, Blodgett. But before I go, 
I’m goin’ to tell you jest what I think of you. 
You’re a damned dirty crook—that’s what you be! 
An’ the only reason you want that dam to go in is 
so’s you kin steal MacAlister’s timber. You ain’t 
smart enough to do it alone so you hired Sam King 
to tell you how. You know’d Sam was the man 
to go to when you had a dirty job to do. Others 
has used him before, an’ you birds pass a good 
thing along among you. You’ve tried to buy Mac¬ 
Alister’s timber, an’ when you seen you couldn’t, 
you figger on stealin’ it. That’s what it amounts 
to—stealin’ it! You know, an’ I know all about 
appraisers. I’ve saw quite a bit of appraisin’ done, 
an’ I ain’t never heard a millionaire loggin’ outfit 
kick yet on their findin’s. It’s a dirty game, Blod¬ 
gett, an’ the hell of it is that it works. You rich 
loggers greasin’ witnesses, an’ legislators an’ ap- 


294 


Without Gloves 


praisers, an’ everyone else that you have to, an’ 
then sailin' in an’ bustin’ the little fellers. An’ you 
figger on squarin’ it with God by pullin' a long- 
face, an’ givin’ honest men hell fer cussin’, an’ 
forkin’ over a big slice of yer boodle to the church. 
That’s you Blodgett—a damned hypocrit! An’ if 
you ain’t in hell when I git there, it'll be ’cause you 
ain’t dead yet.” Neely turned to the desk in the 
corner of the room, and seating himself, drew out 
a check book. “I’ll jest write out a check fer my 
time, Blodgett,” he said. “An’ then I’ll be goin’.” 
He glanced over at Leonard who had been a silent 
listener to all that had been said. “Guess I kin 
make out yourn, too, can’t I, son?” he asked, “I 
guess you don’t want to keep on workin’ fer no 
such outfit as this, do you?” 

For just an instant Leonard hesitated, then he 
cleared his throat harshly: “No, I ain’t quittin’,” 
he answered. “Cap, here, he looks like a square 
guy to me. Even if he ain’t, it ain’t none of my 
business. I’m workin’ fer him, not fer this here 
MacAlister guy, an’ when he throws me a chanct 
to make a little easy money, I’d be a fool to pass 
it up. You’re a fool to pass it up, too. What the 
hell do you care about anyone else, so you git 
yours? I know what side of my bread the butter’s 
on; I’ll jest stick by Mr. Blodgett.” 


The New Foreman 


295 


The lumberman was on his feet, his voice shaking 
with rage, as he pointed a trembling finger at Neely: 
“You’re discharged—fired! Do you hear? You 
will leave this camp on the train in the morning.” 

Neely folded the check, placed it in his pocket, 
and rising from his chair, proceeded to stow his 
personal effects in his turkey. “The hell I will,” 
he answered. “You an’ your hired liars will be 
on that train, an’ I’m a little particular who I ride 
with. Looks like you’ve got things pretty much 
yer own way, Blodgett, an’ with the money you’ve 
got, an’ the witnesses you’ve bought, you’ll prob’ly 
be able to steal MacAlister’s timber. But it ain’t 
goin’ to be so easy as you figgered, Blodgett, ’cause, 
come ten o’clock Tuesday mornin’ I’ll be right there 

to the Capitol, an’ so will MacAlister, an’-” he 

paused abruptly, and turned his eyes full upon 
Leonard, “an’ so will MacAlister’s gal.” A note 
of bitter scorn tinged his words as Leonard’s eyes 
fell before his gaze: “An’ as fer you, greener, as 
long as there’s lumbermen like Blodgett, they’ll be 
jobs fer you. You’re smarter than Sam King. 
They’d ort to pay you well.” And swinging his 
turkey to his back he opened the door and stepped 
out into the night. 

In the office Blodgett turned abruptly to Leonard: 
“You are foreman of this camp, in the place of 



296 


Without Gloves 


Neely, who was discharged for incompetence. He 
didn’t quit, he was discharged.” 

“Sure he was. I heard you fire him. But hell, Cap, 
you better git someone else fer boss. I can’t run no 
camp, not yet. They’s a hell of a lot I ain’t hep to.” 

Blodgett reseated himself, and motioned Leonard 
to a chair. “Listen to me,” he began sharply, “I 
want the testimony of a camp foreman. A logging 
foreman’s word carries weight in matters pertaining 
to timber operations. You will be the accredited 
foreman of Number Eight until after the hearing. 
After that you will return to the camp in your for¬ 
mer capacity.” 

“I make you, all right. But, say, Cap, when 
do I git my mitts on that extry jack?’’ 

“What?” 

“Why, you said somethin’ about doublin’ the 
wages. When do you figger to come acrost?” 

“Ah, you refer to the—er, added compensation 
for making the arduous journey to St. Paul?” 

“Er—yes, that would be it. When do you figger 
on—er, slippin’ me the roll?” 

“You shall be paid in cash by an agent, imme¬ 
diately upon conclusion of your testimony.” 

“That’s all right, Cap, but s’pose we just go 
fifty-fifty on the purse.” 

“What do you mean?” 


The New Foreman 


297 

“Why, how about passin’ over half the jack be¬ 
fore the testimony ?” 

Blodgett’s eyes narrowed : “Do you mean to inti¬ 
mate that you do not trust me to fulfil my obliga¬ 
tions ?” 

“No, no, Cap, you git me wrong. I’d trust you— 
like a policeman. But this here agent guy. S’pose 
that there roll would stick to him. Where’d I be at ?” 

A thin smile played at the corners of Blodgett’s 
lips, and without a word he slipped a wallet from 
an inside pocket and counted out some bills, which 
Leonard recounted, and thrust into his own pocket. 
“And now,’’ continued the lumberman, “is there 
anything about this matter that you do not under¬ 
stand? Of course King will offer his testimony 
first, and you will be guided largely by that, but 
have you the essential facts in mind?’’ 

Leonard nodded: “Yes, I guess I’ve got the 
whole thing pretty well doped out.’’ 

“Suppose you just go over the salient features.’’ 

“Huh?’’ 

“I say, I would like to have you tell me the main 
points of what you are to testify to, so I may be 
sure you have it straight.’’ 

“Well, you want this here committee to pass a 
bill to let you build a dam on the north line of 
section ten. The reason fer the dam is to raise 


298 


Without Gloves 


the water so you can float out your logs. Your 
timber reaches down to half a mile above the dam. 
The reason the dam’s got to be right there is be¬ 
cause there’s a ridge of high ground there that will 
make a wall fer your pool.” 

“Very good, Leonard, very good. And now 
have you ever seen MacAlister’s timber?” 

“Yes. I was through it huntin’ deer.” 

“What do you think of it?” 

“Well, they’s a lot of little stuff not hardly 
more’n what you might say, brush. There’s some 
big stuff, but he told me he’s be’n hackin’ away at 
it fer more’n twenty years, so it don’t stand to 
reason there’d be so much left.” 

“Just so, Leonard, just so. A great share of it 
is what might be termed cut-over, if that is the case.” 

“Most of it has be’n cut over all right.” 

“Don’t forget that point. I shall instruct my 
attorney to bring out that evidence at the hearing 
—to ask you specifically about that point.” 

“Good idea, Cap. I’ll give ’em an earful.” 

“Very good. We will have plenty of time to¬ 
morrow on the train to go over the finer points with 
King. Good night.” 

“Good night,” answered Leonard, and as he 
passed around to the bunk house door, he chuckled. 
“Neely, he’s sure sore.” 


CHAPTER XXI 
“up against it” 

It was late that night when Tim Neely knocked 
loudly on the door of the MacAlister cabin. 

“Who’s there?” called a voice from the inside, 
as a light glowed dully from the window. 

“It’s me—Tim Neely.” 

The door opened and MacAlister, clad in his 
underclothing, and holding a tin lamp, bade him 
enter. 

“Who be ye, an’ what d’ye want, wakin’ folks 
up in th’ middle av’ th’ night?” asked the old man 
as he laid kindling in the stove. 

“I got somethin’ to tell you, an’ there ain’t no 
time to lose neither if you’re goin’ to save yer tim¬ 
ber.” 

“Save the timber! What d’ye mane—save th’ 
timber?” 

“Blodgett’s after it, an’ we’ve got to move quick 
to stop him.” 


299 


300 


Without Gloves 


“He ain’t goin’ to haul it off tonight wid this 
thractor, is he?” 

“No. But you’ve got to get your clothes on an’ 
hitch up yer team an’ pull out fer Thunder Head 
tonight so we can catch the train in the morning 
for St. Paul.” 

“St. Paul, is ut? What the devil ye drivin’ at? 
An’ who be ye?” 

“I was boss of Blodgett’s Number Eight camp 
till a couple of hours ago.” 

The flames were roaring up the pipe, and the 
stove began to radiate heat. A sound from a cor¬ 
ner of the room attracted Neely’s attention and he 
saw that someone was descending the ladder that 
led to the loft. A moment later Mary MacAlister 
stood before him, dressed in checked shirt and 
heavy wool trousers, her feet encased in grey yarn 
socks. MacAlister had drawn on his trousers and 
stood scowling into the face of the big foreman. 
“Boss av Blodgett’s Number Eight!” he exclaimed, 
angrily. “An’ we’ve had the boss av his Number 
Nine, an’ his thractor man snoopin’ around 
here! Why don’t he sind over th’ rist av his 
crew ?” 

Neely returned the scowl: “Look here, Paddy 
MacAlister, you quit yer nonsense an’ listen to me! 
My name’s Neely—Tim Neely. An’ my dad was 


“Up Against It” 


301 


Mike Neely that’s worked side by side with you 
on many a job. I’ve heard him tell about you an’ 
him always stickin’ together in fights an’ such, back 
in the early days-” 

“Mike Neely’s bye! An’ why in hell didn’t ye 
say so? An’ what ye doin’ workin’ f’r a blaguard 
like Blodgett. Oi mind th’ time down to Brainerd 


“Yes, yes, I’ve heerd tell about how him an’ you 
cleaned up on the hull camp of Scotchmens. But 
listen to me, an’ we can talk about that later. 
Blodgett’s goin’ to put in a dam on the north line 
of section ten.” 

“A dam! A dam, did ye say? On the narth 
line av siction tin! Why, bye, ut w’d flood me 
out!” 

“Sure it would, an’ that’s jest what he figgers 
on doin’. They was some surveyors through here 
wasn’t they?” 

“Sure they was, f’r th’ new railroad. They 
spint a hull day where the narth line av siction tin 
crosses th’ river. They said ut wuz a bridge they 
wuz figgerin’ on f’r th’ railroad to cross on.” 

“Railroad—hell!” exclaimed Neely. “They ain’t 
no railroad cornin’ through here. It’s Blodgett’s 
dam they was lay in’ off.” 

“But King, he says how the Company was fig- 




302 Without Gloves 

germ’ a cut-off line from Thunder Head to the 
M. & I.” 

“King was hired by Blodgett to figger out how 
to steal your timber an’ he figgered that floodin’ it, 
an’ drownin’ out all yer young stuff, an’ gittin’ the 
rest appraised an’ buyin’ it in, was about the easiest 
way to git it.” 

The girl had listened breathlessly as she laced her 
boots. From behind some cheap curtains that evi¬ 
dently screened a bed, came a low, tremulous wail. 
The girl crossed the room: “Do be still, mother,” 
she begged, “it will come out all right.” The low 
wailing continued, and the girl turned to Neely, 
her face deathly white: “Oh, he can’t do that!” 
she cried, “surely, he can’t do that—after we’ve 
worked so hard all these years!” 

The big man shook his head lugubriously: “I 
don’t know. Miss. He’s got the money. They’s 
be’n things as raw as this pulled in the woods be¬ 
fore now. We got one chanct, an’ only one. We 
got to git to St. Paul by Tuesday mornin’. The 
legislative committee meets at ten o’clock at the 
Capitol, for a hearin’ on this bill. An’ we got to 
be there to fight it 1 know a lawyer in Little Falls, 
we’ll wire him to get on the train when we go 
through. We’ll fight ’em—but Blodgett’s got his 
paid witnesses.” 


“Up Against It” 


303 


"‘Where’s—where’s Shirly Leonard?” asked the 
girl, and Neely noted the tinge of colour that flooded 
her face at the words. 

“Leonard, he’s—with Blodgett,” he answered, 
gruffly. “The dirty pup switched over as soon as 
Blodgett offered to pay us double our winter’s 
wages fer to testify accordin’ to instructions.” 

“Oi know’d ut! Oi know’d he wuz a domned 
spy! Av he’d of come back Oi’d av shot um!” 
cried MacAlister. 

Neely interrupted him: “We ain’t got no time 
to lose talkin’,” he reminded, “we’ve got to git the 
team hooked up an’ light out fer Thunder Head. 
It’s after twelve o’clock, an’ Monday already. An’ 
we got to be there Tuesday mornin’ sure.” 

MacAlister slipped on his mackinaw and lighted 
the lantern. “Git us a bit to ate, Mary, an’ pack th’ 
valise while we git th’ harses out,” he called, and 
as Neely followed the old man out the door, he 
heard a low, muffled sob that was drowned by the 
rattle of the iron frying pan that the girl placed on 
the stove. 

“Gurl, ye’ll not be goin’!” cried MacAlister, as 
at the conclusion of the hasty meal Mary drew on 
her heavy fur coat. 

“Yes, I’m going,” she answered, and Neely 
silenced the old man’s further objection. 


304 


Without Gloves 


“Let her go, MacAlister,” he advised, “she kin 
talk better than what we kin. An’ we need all the 
help we kin git. You can’t never tell what’ll hap¬ 
pen when yer buckin’ a man with money.” So Mac¬ 
Alister gave reluctant consent, and on the road to 
Thunder Head, between spells of shovelling drifts 
from the trail that wound endlessly through the 
cut-over, Neely told all he knew of the details of 
Blodgett’s scheme. 

In the grey of the morning they drew up before 
the hotel, where Pat MacCormack welcomed Neely 
and the girl while MacAlister put up his team. 
While they waited for breakfast Neely related the 
plot to MacCormack, who listened with ejaculations 
frequent and profane. At the conclusion of the 
narrative the landlord shook his head dubiously: 
“Mebbe ye’ll bate the bloody owld divil, but, Oi’m 
doubtin’ ut. ’Twas count o’ him Oi’m peggin’ around 
on this wooden fut. Niver a cint av damages did 
he pay me, an’ whin Oi lawed um, Oi got bate. 
He’d too much money f’r the likes av me to bate 
um, wid his witnesses all swearin’ ’twas me own 
fault th’ log was dropped on me fut.” 

A half hour before train time the Blodgett’s 
logging locomotive drawing the caboose puffed onto 
a side track, but the occupants did not leave the car 
until the ticket agent unlocked the door of the 


“Up Against It” 


305 


depot. Then Blodgett stepped across and purchased 
the tickets, and returned to the caboose. A few 
moments later Neely purchased the tickets for the 
three, and wired the attorney at Little Falls. 

When the single long whistle of the big train 
answered the flag signal the three started from 
the hotel. As they reached the door they were 
joined by MacCormack who, clad in a severe black 
suit, was carrying a very yellow suit case. 

“Where you goin’ to?” asked Neely in surprise. 

“Who, me?” answered the landlord, “Oi’m goin’ 
to St. Paul. Oi know somethin’ about MacAlister’s 
timber, an’ th’ time he’s spint workin’ ut, an’ th’ 
results he’s got—an’ av an-ny word Oi cud say 
wud do harm to owld Blodgett, Oi’m the b’y’ll be 
there wid a mouthful.” 

As the heavy train ground to a stop at the 
wooden platform of the station, the two opposing 
factions came face to face at the vestibuled door 
of the car. Standing between her father and Neely 
the girl studied the faces of the men who stepped 
on board. Blodgett, the collar of his fur coat 
turned up about his ears kept his eyes severely to the 
front, noticing neither by word nor look the four 
who stood side by side on the platform. Sam King, 
carrying his employer’s leather bag, followed, grin¬ 
ning fatuously as he eyed the MacAlister crowd. 


306 


Without Gloves 


Last came Leonard who, with eyes averted, crowded 
hastily aboard the car. 

On board the train Neely led the way to a day 
coach, where turning a seat, the four sat facing 
each other. A desultory conversation waxed and 
waned as the train clicked over the rails during the 
long hours of the forenoon. Outside the gaunt 
cut-over raced rearward—a desolate waste of scrub 
oak and maple, with occasional stands of jack pine 
or hardwood that had not yet been laid down by 
the saws of the fallers. Desolate, indeed, to these 
men who knew the country as it had been only a 
few years ago, and as if to accentuate the desola¬ 
tion, bare white squares showed at intervals— 
squares that were the snow-buried fields of settlers, 
who, attracted by the low price of the cut-over 
lands had built their houses, cleared the land of the 
stumps and brush, and were fighting the long, losing 
battle with the sand. 

At Little Falls Neely stepped from the train and 
returned presently with a paper bag filled with 
sandwiches and doughnuts. 

“Where’s your friend, the lawyer?” asked the 
girl, as the boss resumed his seat. 

“He’ll be along pretty soon. I seen him git on 
the train, but I was afraid I’d miss gittin’ this grub 
if I didn’t hurry. Seen old Blodgett, too. He was 


“Up Against It” 307 

at the telegraft office when I come through from 
the restaurant.” 

Nearly an hour passed before the attorney, a 
squat man, with an ill-fitting suit of store clothing, 
and necktie awry, approached down the aisle and 
halted beside the boss. 

“Hello, Mr. Jinkins,” Neely greeted. “Folks 
this here’s Mr. Jinkins the lawyer I was tellin’ 
about. This is MacAlister, an’ Miss MacAlister, 
an’ Pat MacCormack.” 

The man in the aisle acknowledged the intro¬ 
duction with a bob of the head that included the 
group, and addressed Neely: “What was it you 
wanted of me?” he asked. 

MacCormack arose from his seat: “Set here 
where ye kin chin between yez. OiTl be goin’ to 
the smoker f’r a bit av a smoke.” 

Jenkins slouched into the proferred seat, and 
Neely proceeded to enlighten him. 

When the boss had finished Jenkins scratched 
the side of his neck with a black-nailed thumb: 
“Jest leave it all to me, Neely,” he said, complacently, 
“we’ve got ’em beat a mile. They ain’t got a leg 
to stand on. You folks rest easy. You won’t even 
need to appear before the committee. I’ll fix it all 
right, but it’ll cost you somethin’. Can’t afford to 
practice law fer nothin’. Here I am up to my 


308 


Without Gloves 


neck in work an’ have to leave off right in the 
middle of it, an’ go down to St. Paul. It’s expensuv 
business, Neely, but you come to the right man. 
It’ll cost you two hundred, win or lose, an’ another 
five hundred on top of it if we win. The two 
hundred is payable now.” 

“That’s all right, Jinkins,” answered Neely, 
reaching for his pocket. “I’ll jest pay it, an’ Mac- 
Alister kin pay me later.” 

Mary MacAlister laid a hand on the boss’s arm: 
“Just a minute, Mr. Neely,” she said, and turned 
abruptly upon Jenkins: “What was it Blodgett 
has been telling you for the last hour?” she asked. 
“And how much is he paying you to lose this case 
for us?” 

Caught off his guard the man flushed deep red: 
“Why—why—Blodgett—him an’ I’s old friends— 
that is—we’ve knew one another a good while—I 
jest happen to see him sittin’ there in the sleeper, 
an’ we set an’ talked fer a bit—that’s all—same as 
anyone would do.” 

Piling bluff upon bluff, the girl shot another ques¬ 
tion : “And the check he handed you—what is the 
amount of it?” 

“The check—Oh, that! Why, that was a balance 
he owed me fer some work I done fer him a while 
back. I hadn’t never sent in no bill to him yet. 


“Up Against It ” 309 

They all come to me when they want a good law¬ 
yer.” 

For just an instant Neely glared at the other, 
then as comprehension dawned on him, he reached 
forth a huge hand and literally swept the other 
from his seat and sent him sprawling into the aisle. 
“You git to hell out of here before I brain vour 
he growled. “Go back an’ tell Blodgett about what 
a hell of a good lawyer he's got. We don’t need 
none.” 

As Jenkins, mumbling threats of prosecution for 
assault, regained his feet and retreated down the 
aisle, Neely turned to the girl: “You see, Miss, 
what we’re up against. We don’t even dare to trust 
no lawyer. We’ve got to go it alone. But, what 
I can’t see is how you know’d he’d be’n talkin’ to 
Blodgett, an’ about Blodgett givin’ him that check.” 

The girl smiled: “In the first place I didn’t like 
his looks, nor the way he talked. Then, I remem¬ 
bered that it had been an hour since he got on the 
train. If the business you had with him was im¬ 
portant enough for you to telegraph him to join 
us on the train, surely he wouldn’t have waited an 
hour before hunting us up. There must have been 
a reason for his delay, and I figured that Blodgett 
was the reason. And if I was right, then Blodgett 
would have to pay him, and when I saw how in- 


Without Gloves 


310 

sistent he was on collecting from us in advance, 
I thought he would do the same with Blodgett.” 

“Well, you thought right,” replied Neely, grimly. 
“An’ if you kin keep on thinkin’ that good, I guess 
we ain’t goin’ to need no lawyer.” He turned to 
MacAlister: “I was right about bringin’ her along,” 
he said. “Where’d we be’n now if we’d left her 
to home?” 

Darkness had fallen before the train pulled into 
the station at St. Paul. In the glare of the arc 
lights Blodgett waited at the steps of the day coach. 
With him were two strangers. As Neely, carrying 
the MacAlister baggage, stepped from the car he 
was confronted by the two men. 

“That’s your man,” said Blodgett crisply, 
“Arrest him.” 

One of the men showed a badge and laid a hand 
upon Neely’s arm: “You’re under arrest, young 
feller,” he said, “I’ll read the warrant.” 

“Arrest!” exclaimed Neely, “What for?” 

“Forgery, as charged in the warrant.” 

Blodgett stepped forward, a gleam of triumph 
in his eye: “Forgery, Neely, forgery. You signed 
my name to a check drawn payable to yourself 
after you had been discharged from my employ. 
Mr. Leonard, the present foreman of my Number 
Eight camp, is a witness to the crime.” 


“ Up Against It ” 


311 


“Crime—hell! It’s a dirty trick to keep me 
from testifyin’ tomorrow!” cried Neely, glaring 
from Blodgett to the group of his paid witnesses 
who stood grinning in the background. 

“That’ll be about all out of you,” said one of 
the officers, gruffly, “You come along with us.” 

Neely extended the old-fashioned leather satchel 
to MacAlister, only to have it seized from his hand. 
“No you don’t!” cried the officer. “Pretty slick, 
ain’t you, tryin’ to git rid of evidence right in under 
our nose.” 

“It’s theirs,” answered Neely, “I was only car- 
ryin’ it fer ’em.” 

“You can tell that to the judge. But in the mean¬ 
time, we ain’t overlookin’ no bets.” 

Before anyone could interfere MacAlister hurled 
himself upon the man, tearing the satchel from his 
grasp and knocking him to the floor. “B’gobs, an’ 
thot’s me own valise, ye dirty thayfe!” he cried, 
angrily. 

The next moment the officer was upon his feet, 
a leather black jack raised to strike. Like a flash 
Neely leaped forward and his big fist landed full 
in the man’s face with a force that sent him sprawl¬ 
ing in a limp heap a dozen feet away. “Ye 
would hit an old man with that, would ye?” he 
cried, and the next thing he knew a club descended 


312 


Without Gloves 


upon his own head, and the world turned black, as 
two uniformed patrolmen came to the aid of the 
plain clothes men. In the melee, MacAlister had 
in turn launched a fresh attack upon the officer ^yho 
had struck Neely down, and it was several minutes 
before the combined efforts of the two patrolmen 
could overpower the old Irishman whose white hair 
bristled about his head like the quills of a disturbed 
porcupine. 

Several minutes later, in answer to a riot call, 
other policemen appeared and dragged the still fight¬ 
ing MacAlister up the stairs to the waiting patrol 
wagon, and carried the inert forms of Neely and 
the plain clothes man after him. 

Leaning against an iron pillar of the train shed, 
the girl sobbed aloud, entirely unmindful of the 
little group of curious onlookers who had not fol¬ 
lowed the crowd to the wagon. 

Picking up his own suit case Pat MacCormack 
touched the girl gently upon the shoulder: “Come 
on, Mary, gurl,” he said, “It looks like we’re up 
against ut all right. But they’s still two av us 
lift to fight Blodgett—an’ moind ye, gurl—we’re 
Oirish.” 


CHAPTER XXII 

KING TRIES TO DEAL 

After the patrol wagon had moved away, and 
the crowd dispersed, Blodgett turned to the two 
men who stood beside him upon the sidewalk : “I 
want you to report at my office—you know where 
it is, King—at half-past eight o’clock tomorrow 
morning for a conference with my attorneys. You 
will then receive your final instructions.” 

“We’ll be there,” answered King, “an’ if you 
should happen to want us fer anything between 
then an’ now, we’ll be to Wilson’s Hotel. We 
might go to a show or somethin’ tonight, but you 
leave word there an’ we’ll git it.” 

After registering in the office of the old wooden 
hotel that had served two generations of lumber¬ 
jacks and rivermen, King led the way to the bar¬ 
room. “Give me a shot of red liquor,” he ordered, 
“Old Blodgett’s buyin’ a drink. What’s yourn?” 


3U 


3H 


Without Gloves 


Leonard shook his head: “I ain’t drinkin',” he 
answered, “go ahead.” 

“Take a seegar, then,” urged the other. 

Again Leonard declined: “Nothin’ fer me, 
thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

King eyed the greener half contemptuously: 
“Don’t drink, an’ don’t smoke!” he grinned, “You 
must live a hell of a miserable life.” There was 
a trace of a sneer in the words that Leonard was 
quick to detect. He knew that King detested him 
and that he had despised him from the day he had 
cravenly submitted to the insults of the loading 
crew on Number Nine’s skidway. Knew also that 
the man’s hatred had increased when his advice 
had enabled Sim Coughlan to defeat Andy Moore 
in the bunk house, and again when he had so con¬ 
spicuously aided in saving the burning car of gaso¬ 
line after King, himself, had sought safety in the 
timber. But all outward and visible signs of this 
hatred had disappeared the moment King had found 
that Leonard had been selected by Blodgett to cor¬ 
roborate his testimony before the committee. All 
the way to Thunder Head, and later on the trans¬ 
continental flyer, King had assiduously devoted 
himself to being agreeable to the despised greener. 
Time and time again Leonard had grinned to him¬ 
self at the awkward overtures of Number Nine’s 


315 


King Tries to Deal 

foreman, and the words of exaggerated praise with 
which King had detailed to Blodgett his feat of 
keeping the log road open during the blizzard. 

Leonard knew that this sudden show of friend¬ 
liness was but a clumsy mask of King’s real feel¬ 
ing toward him—a mask of expediency. For if, 
as Neely had said, King had been hired to steal 
MacAlister’s timber, upon the success of the under¬ 
taking depended King’s remuneration. 

Therefore, King exerted himself to establish 
friendly relations with his ally, the new foreman 
of Number Eight, and it was despite this exertion 
that the sneer had crept into his voice. He was 
quick, however, to cover the lapse, hoping Leonard 
had not noticed: 

“Well, here’s how! An’ I was just kiddin’, 
Leonard. Facts is, it ain’t no one’s business but 
his own if a man don’t favour smokin’ an’ drinkin’. 
Some does, an’ some don’t—an’ there y’are. Come 
on, we’ll go in to supper, an’ then we’ll hunt us up 
a show somewheres. Use’ to be a pretty good 
theayter over near the end of the Wabasha Street 
bridge, plenty of gals an’ the like of that. You 
go to shows, don’t you, Leonard?” 

“Oh, sure, I go to shows, all right,” laughed 
the greener, “Come on. Le’s eat.” 

As they were leaving the dining room, Mary 


316 Without Gloves 

MacAlister and MacCormack entered. Leonard 
swiftly averted his eyes, and his blood boiled as he 
noted the insolent stare with which King’s apprais¬ 
ing glance swept the trim figure of the girl in the 
white shirtwaist and blue serge skirt. Involuntar¬ 
ily his fists clenched, as without a word, he followed 
the others to the office. 

An hour later, Leonard sat at a small table, in 
a long room filled with similar tables, and drank 
vichy while King drank beer. 

Upon a stage at one end of the room a rather 
suggestive act was in progress between a lightly 
clad and heavily painted Amazon and a caricature 
of a Jew comedian. Other painted women moved 
freely about among the tables selling bottled beer 
and drinking with the patrons. And all to the 
accompaniment of a brass-voiced piano incessantly 
and vociferously manipulated by a sallow-faced 
youth in a stained and ill-fitting dress suit. 

Straying from the stage, King’s glance fastened 
upon Leonard, who had straightened in his chair, 
and was staring wide-eyed into the face of the girl 
who had paused at the next table to lean caress¬ 
ingly upon the shoulder of a cow puncher who, 
with three or four companions, was taking in the 
town. The man’s arm was about the girl’s waist 
and he was repeating with maudlin insistence that 


317 


King Tries to Deal 

he had brought a train-load of beef from Chinook, 
Montana, to the stock yards at South St. Paul. 
Slopping beer from a bottle into a glass, he held 
it to the girl’s lips, and as she raised her head to 
drink, the boss of Number Nine saw her eyes meet 
Leonard’s fascinated gaze. Seconds passed as the 
two stared into each other’s eyes. Then the girl’s 
arm slipped from the cowboy’s shoulder, and the 
hand that held the untasted beer faltered so that 
when she returned the glass half its contents spilled 
unheeded upon the enamelled table top. 

In two steps the girl reached Leonard’s side: 
“You!” she cried, “Mike Duffy! You—here!” 

“Yes, Lottie, I'm here,” answered Leonard, “but, 
how about you? What’s the matter with the big 
burg? What you doin’ here? I thought you’d 
throw’d in with Bull Larrigan.” 

The drop curtain terminated the cheap skit on 
the stage, and the piano swung into the strains of 
a sentimental ballad. The cowboys rose from the 
adjoining table and made their way noisily toward 
the door, and the girl drew one of the vacated chairs 
to Leonard’s side and settled her elbows on the 
table. “Buy a drink, Mike, and I’ll tell you. They 
won’t stand for us girls setting around unless we’re 
selling drinks.” Leonard ordered beer. King 
glanced quizzically at the two and feigned absorbed 


318 


Without Gloves 


attention to the stage where the curtain had risen 
upon a buxom female who, in high-pitched, nasal 
tones, rendered the sentimental ballad. A waiter 
set a tray of bottled beer upon the table and deftly 
removed the caps. Leonard paid, as the girl poured 
herself a drink. 

“Bull couldn’t stand prosperity. We lived high 
while his roll lasted. But it didn’t last long. Be¬ 
tween the booze an’ the snow it got him, an’ he’s 
back again, holed up somewheres on Rivington 
Street like he was when Lefty dug him out to help 
train you—only worse. Bull won’t never come back 
—he’s through.” 

“But you—you wasn’t dependin’ on him?” 

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and a gleam of hate 
flashed from between the heavily blued lids: “They 
tried to frame me, damn ’em! They did frame 
me! But I was too wise for ’em. I sent my 
mouthpiece straight to the District Attorney, an’ 
when the smoke cleared away, Lefty Klingermann, 
an’ Stiletto John Serbelloni, an’ the Sicily Ape 
goes up the river to wait till January the 17th, that’s 
—why that’s today!” A smile of savage cruelty 
curled the too-red lips, “If the buzzer worked all 
right there’s three new faces in hell tonight, and 
I’m glad of it! They’d of framed me for a long 
stretch, but I fooled ’em.” 


319 


King Tries to Deal 

Leonard stared into the cruel eyes, aghast: “Lefty 
Klingermann, an’ them Dago gunmen—the buzzer! 
Say, kid,” he cried, suddenly, “it wasn’t fer bump¬ 
in’ me off, was it? I seen in the paper-” 

“No. For bumpin’ off Kid Morowitz. They’d 
of framed you for that—if they’d of found you. 
The Kid double-crossed Lefty, an’ Bull tipped it off 
to Lefty that the Kid was in his room, an’ Lefty’s 
gunmen got him. They had you framed for the 
fall guy. Believe me, you’re lucky.” 

A weight seemed suddenly lifted from Leonard’s 
shoulders. He was no longer a hunted man ! In 
the woods he had felt reasonably secure, but this 
trip to St. Paul had been attended by risk—not 
great, probably, but with the police of New York 
on the lookout for him, a risk, nevertheless. “Then 
they don’t want me?” he breathed, “I seen that in 
the papers, too—how they was huntin’ Mike Duffy 


“Sure, that was part of Lefty’s game, to swing 
the cops onto your trail, an’ it was all framed. If 
they’d of got you, it would have been you shovin’ 
against the straps this morning, instead of them.” 

“But, what you doin’ here?” 

“Oh, that was part of the deal. I was to get 
out of New York and never show up there again. 
They pay my fare to Chicago, and slip me a cen- 




320 


Without Gloves 


tury to start right on, along with a lot of good 
advice. I hit the Big Windy and the first job I 
pulls I’m pinched.” She scowled savagely, “Start 
right—hell! What chance has a girl got to start 
over when the Chicago bulls is wised up before 
ever I hit their burg? They had my number, all 
right, all right. And they shook me down for all 
I had. I had to hustle on the street to get the carfare 
to get out of town. And here I am. I ain’t had the 
nerve to try the stores yet—I don’t dare to go to 
work without a fall roll. They’ve pfcb’ly passed 
me along, and I don’t want to do time.” 

Leonard passed his hand over his eyes. A great 
wave of revulsion had surged up within him, as the 
girl shamelessly recited the details of her sordid 
story. Commonplace details they were—a little 
fragment of life—of a life he had known—had 
lived. A year ago there would have been nothing 
revolting in the recital. But, now—the air of the 
room seemed suddenly stifling. The odour of stale 
beer reached his nostrils from the slops on the tray. 
His eyes closed. Above him he seemed to see the 
dark canopy of green that was the tops of pines. 
All about him giant boles swayed gently in the wind. 
A creek gurgled noisily among ice-capped stones. 
He could hear the creak of runners on the snow of 
the log road, and the roar of his tractor exhaust. 


321 


King Tries to Deal 

From somewhere came the whine of a saw, the 
hollow ring of ax blows. The far-off cry of “tim¬ 
ber,” and the long crash of a falling tree. Chains 
rattled. He stood looking across a narrow river, 
at the girl who had paused, water pail in hand, to 
look back at him. The vivid splash of colour against 
the snow—the face of Mary MacAlister—he opened 
his eyes with a jerk, and stared straight into the 
black eyes of Lotta Rivoli, who was regarding him 
curiously. 

“Sleepy:” she asked, with an insinuating smile. 
“Come on, then. I always did love you, Mike. 
You know that. It’ll be all right, now I found 
you again—the two of us—we can put somethin’ 
across.” 

She had risen from her chair and stood close be¬ 
side him, so close that her soft breast brushed his 
shoulder. Her hand was upon his arm gently pull¬ 
ing him to his feet. In his nostrils the scent of 
strong perfume mingled with that of stale beer. 
And this was the woman who had once fascinated 
him! This bawd, this tainted woman, this de¬ 
stroyer of men! A sudden disgust that was almost 
akin to nausea surged up within him, and he leaped 
to his feet, overturning his chair, and brushing at 
the place where her hand had rested upon his sleeve. 

“You! Love!” he muttered thickly, and with a 


322 


Without Gloves 

short, harsh laugh, turned on his heel and threaded 
his way swiftly among the tables to the door. 

The look of intense surprise upon the face of the 
girl gave place almost instantly to a blazing glance 
of hate. Her hand groped at her throat, and she 
seemed about to follow the man who had almost 
reached the door, when Sam King stepped around 
the table to her side. 

“Let him go, Miss,” he said, “I kin tell you 
where you’ll find him if you want him.” 

The black eyes flashed to his, and the red lips 
framed the words: “Who are you? And what 
do you know about him?” 

“Well,” answered King, guardedly, “I know 
quite a bit about him. He don’t go by the name 
of Mike Duffy around here. Seems like you know’d 
somethin’, yerself. I thought mebbe we might git 
together an’ kind of dope out somethin’.” 

Without a word she motioned him to the chair 
vacated by Leonard and seating herself close beside 
him, touched a button. When the waiter appeared 
she ordered whiskey, which she swallowed at a gulp. 

“And, now,” she said, turning to King, “Come 
across. What’s it worth to you to know what you 
want ?” 

King grinned craftily: “Quit yer kiddin’,” he 
answered. “What I want to know is worth jest 


323 


King Tries to Deal 

as much as what you want to know, an’ not one 
damn’ cent more. I’ll tell you this, though. He’s 
got a good job, an’ if you’ve got anything on him 
you kin make him come acrost—but not me.” 

“What is it you want to know?” 

“Well, f’r instance this here ‘Mike’ Duffy busi¬ 
ness. I’d kind of like to git a line on what he’s 
be’n doin’ before he showed up around here.” 

At the end of an hour, during which King bought 
several drinks, the girl had given him a pretty good 
account of Leonard’s career from the moment of 
his entry into the prize ring. The net result was 
somewhat of a disappointment to the camp boss, 
as the alias had immediately suggested to his mind 
a criminal career that would have given him a hold 
upon the greener. 

King left the beer hall, and as he threaded the 
streets he dismissed all thought of the greener from 
his mind. There remained one card he had not 
played. A scheme that had been fomenting in his 
brain from the moment he had looked down into 
the violet eyes of Mary MacAlister from the top 
of the snowdrift upon the occasion of his first visit 
to her father’s timber. It was, to the mind of 
King, a wonderfully simple scheme, and one that, 
should it work, would give him, and not Blodgett, 
control of MacAlister’s timber. Baldly stated, the 


324 


Without Gloves 


scheme consisted merely of marrying MacAlister’s 
daughter. MacAlister was getting old, he argued, 
and while he remained alive there ought to be better 
than wages for all concerned in working the tract 
as it was being worked. Then, when MacAlister 
died—at this point a gleam of greed would flash 
from King’s eyes as he envisioned the sweeping 
clean-up of every foot of merchantable timber on 
the tract. The first winter following the death of 
MacAlister would see the end of timber farming 
on the MacAlister holdings. The girl would object, 
of course. The man was wont to grin maliciously 
at this point in the story. Hadn’t he handled camps 
of men for years? Guess he could handle one 
woman! 

Over and over again he had planned each step 
of the proceeding. He had already succeeded in 
implanting in MacAlister’s mind a distrust of the 
greener, whom he had looked upon as a possible 
rival. He had put off from day to day speaking 
to the girl, or to MacAlister, whose good graces 
he had been cultivating by presents, at intervals, 
of whiskey. There was plenty of time. Blodgett 
wouldn’t start anything till spring. In fact he had 
advised Blodgett to “get next’’ to the legislative 
committee, reasoning that it would be well toward 
adjournment time before the lumberman would feel 


325 


King Tries to Deal 

sure of his men If the scheme worked—again 
King would grin, as he pictured Blodgett’s rage 
when his principal witness should turn against him 
and expose the plot for flooding MacAlister’s tim¬ 
ber. In the game of dog eat dog, it is well to be 
the outside dog. The sum which Blodgett had 
agreed to pay him the day he got control of Mac¬ 
Alister’s timber, was in no wise commensurate to 
the value of the timber itself. He could afford to 
wait till MacAlister died. It might not be long. 
Accidents happen in the woods, a loosened chain, 
a suddenly released binding pole, a rollway broken 
out at the wrong time. Lots of things could hap¬ 
pen to shorten the time MacAlister’s son-in-law 
must wait to administer the property according to 
his own logging plan. 

Thus matters stood when Blodgett unexpectedly 
appeared with the information that they must ap¬ 
pear immediately before the committee. 

It was not yet eleven o’clock when King entered 
the deserted office of the cheap hotel. Seating him¬ 
self in a chair he lighted his pipe, tilted back against 
the wall, and tried to formulate some plan for 
meeting the girl before appearing at Blodgett’s 
office in the morning. At least, he need have no 
fear of the greener as a possible rival. He had 
noted with satisfaction the look of scorn with which 


Without Gloves 


326 

the girl had regarded him at Thunder Head, and 
again as she had entered the dining room. But, he 
must see her. Maybe it was better after all, that 
Blodgett had forced a show-down. For now the 
girl must realize the absolute necessity for acting 
immediately to save the timber. She was wise 
enough to know that King would be Blodgett’s prin¬ 
cipal witness, and that should he swing over to the 
MacAlister camp, Blodgett’s cause was lost. 

King stood up, and walking to the register, noted 
the number of the girl’s room. He noted, also, that 
MacCormack’s adjoined it. He hesitated. What 
would she do if he should knock quietly upon her 
door and ask an interview with her? It was pos¬ 
sible that she would grant it if she could be made 
to realize it was the last resort to save the timber, 
but it was more probable that she would take fright, 
awaken MacCormack, &nd precipitate a nasty row. 
For several minutes King stood staring at the regis¬ 
ter trying to make up his mind to act. “Damn 
it,” he muttered, “I got to do somethin’, an’ that’s 
the only way I kin figger it.” 

A sound from the wooden staircase attracted his 
attention, and he turned to see Mary MacAlister, 
porcelain water pitcher in hand, coming down the 
stairs. The girl recognized him, and for just an 
instant, she paused uncertainly. Then, without a 


327 


King Tries to Deal 

sign of recognition, she negotiated the remaining 
steps, crossed the room, pressed the faucet of 
the iron water cooler, and filled her pitcher. 

As she turned toward the stairs King accosted 
her: “Good evenin’, Miss. You’re the very one I 
be’n wantin’ to see.” 

The girl halted and flashed him a look of wither¬ 
ing scorn: “I should think,” she answered, “that 
I should be the very one you would not want to 
see,” and continued her way toward the stairs. 

“Hold on, Miss. It’s fer yer own good I want 
to talk to you. It’s yer only chanct to save the 
old man’s timber.” 

At the foot of the stairs the girl turned and faced 
him. “What do you mean—save the timber?” 

“I mean if you don’t talk to me Blodgett will 
flood yer timber an’ drown all the young stuff an’ 
git the rest at the appraiser’s price—an’ you know 
what that means—him with the money he’s got.” 

“Yes,” answered the girl, wearily, “I know what 
that means.” 

“Well, then, you listen to me. I’m the main one 
he’s dependin’ on fer to prove this here dam has 
got to be put in. I kin queer his game to the com¬ 
mittee in about a minute, an’ show him up, to boot. 
I kin tell things that when they hear ’em, Blodgett’ll 
be lucky to keep out of Stillwater.” 


328 


Without Gloves 


“What do you mean?” cried the girl, eagerly. 
“That you would do that?” 

“I might,” grinned the man, “I told you onct 
before, if you remember, that I liked to do folks 
good turns, now an’ then—’specially, pretty gals.” 
King advanced a step toward her, and the girl 
shrank away from him. “Oh, you needn’t be skeert 
of me. I wouldn’t hurt you none. Of course, 
they’d have to be some consideration, as they say 
in the contracts, fer me throwin’ old Blodgett down. 
He’s payin’ me pretty well fer my work. You see 
I ain’t afraid to speak out when they’s jest the two 
of us. One person’s word’s as good as another’s.” 

“What’s your price?” asked the girl, dully, “Re¬ 
member, we’re poor. We can’t pay much. We 
can’t expect to bid against Blodgett.” 

“You kin pay what I want, all right, ’cause 
you re what I want.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean if you’ll marry me, I’ll have old Blodgett 
huntin’ his hole in about two minutes after that 
hearin’ starts tomorrow mornin’.” Hot blood 
mounted to the girl’s face, and she stared at the 
man in horror. Then, in a panic, her eyes sought 
the stairs. “Wait a minute,” commanded King, 
“I ain’t expectin’ you to love me nor nothin’ like 
that—not yet anyways. You’ll find I ain’t so bad 


329 


King Tries to Deal 

if you use me right. Facts is, I’m tired of batchin’ 
it, an , want to settle down. The old man an’ I 
could work the timber, an’ keep all the money in 
the fambly. I ain’t hard to git along with onct you 
come to know me. What I’m offerin’ you is the 
chanct to make a deal to save yer timber. You kin 
take it, or leave it. But, if you don’t take it, you’ll 
take what a bunch of greased appraisers gives you, 
an’ Blodgett’ll take the timber.” 

For just an instant the girl stood glaring into 
his eyes: “You beast!” she cried, “I wouldn’t marry 
you if I knew every stick of timber we own would 
be stolen from us tomorrow! I despise you! I 
loathe you! I’d kill myself before I’d marry you!” 
Her voice choked up, and she started rapidly up 
the stairs. 

The frown that had greeted her first words 
turned to a leering grin upon King’s face: “If 
that’s the way you feel about it, I guess we can’t 
deal,” he called after her, and turning away, crossed 
the floor and took his room key from its hook on 
the numbered board. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

THE HOUSE COMMITTEE 

When Mary MacAlister, accompanied by Pat 
MacCormack, entered one of the committee rooms 
of the State Capitol promptly at ten o’clock the 
following morning, it was to find the opposing 
forces already gathered. Chatting pleasantly with 
members of the committee were Blodgett and his 
two attorneys, while Leonard and King sat upon 
wooden chairs in the background. 

“Something you wanted?” asked a member of 
the committee, as the new newcomers hesitated just 
inside the doorway. 

“Yes,” answered MacCormack, “we want to pro¬ 
test agin’ the buildin’ av a dam on Wild Goose 
River. Is this the place we do it?” 

The man nodded curtly. “Find chairs,” he said. 
“You will be given an opportunity to be heard in 
due time.” 

It was evident at a glance to both MacCormack 


330 


The House Committee 


331 


and the girl that the members of the committee 
were upon terms of friendliness with the lumber¬ 
man and his cohorts. Smiling unctuously, Blodgett 
rubbed his long white hands together in apprecia¬ 
tion of a story told by a committeeman, while the 
two attorneys laughed uproariously. 

“We ain’t got a chanct,” whispered MacCormack, 
behind his outspread palm, “we’re up agin’ ut any¬ 
way we turn. Ain’t Oi near run me legs off thryin’ 
to git bail f’r Neely an’ th’ owld man. Thim 
lawyers av Blodgett’s has be’n busy, an’ everywhere 
Oi wint Oi wuz put off polite like, wid promises.” 

The girl nodded understanding, and her eyes 
dropped to her lap: “Yes, but we’ll fight them. 
Even if the bill is passed, isn’t there an injunction, 
or something.” 

MacCormack shook his head: “No use, gurl. 
Ye can’t law a man wid Blodgett’s money an’ Blod¬ 
gett’s heart. It wud be sindin’ good money after 
bad. They’d bust ye.” 

The chairman rapped for order and the pro¬ 
ceedings began with a reading of the bill. During 
the reading the door opened silently and a man 
entered the room. He was a youngish man, broad 
of shoulders, and with a full-blooded, ruddy face 
out of which a pair of shrewd blue eyes twinkled 
good humouredly. Nodding pleasantly to the mem- 


332 


Without Gloves 


bers of the committee, he drew a chair to one side 
and seated himself. 

At the moment of the man’s entry it was with 
difficulty that Shirly Leonard checked the desire to 
call a greeting. During the months of his work in 
the woods never for a moment had he forgotten 
that face. It was the face of the man he had un¬ 
consciously held before himself as his ideal—the 
face of “the square guy”—of young Tom Regan. 
But, what was he doing here? The man’s eyes 
roved casually from MacCormack and the girl to 
Blodgett’s array of retainers, passing Leonard by 
without hint of recognition. “What’ll he say,” 
thought the greener, “if he spots me as the guy 
that dumped the sand on the track an’ busted his 
mixer? But, it would of smashed them wops to 
hell in about a minute if I hadn’t.” 

One thing Leonard noted with much secret glee 
was the action of Blodgett as the man drew up 
the chair and seated himself. Out of the tail of 
his eye he saw the lumberman cast a nervous, ques¬ 
tioning glance toward his attorneys, and that dur¬ 
ing the reading of the few remaining clauses of 
the bill, he drummed uneasily upon the arm of his 
chair with his long, bony fingers. 

At the conclusion of the reading the chairman 
of the committee spoke: “Gentlemen, you have 


The House Committee 


333 


heard the reading of the bill which is the subject 
of this inquiry. This bill, as you have just heard, 
proposes to grant permission to one, Elija Blodgett, 
a timber operator, to erect a dam at a certain point 
on the Wild Goose River, for the purpose of raising 
the level of that river to a degree that will allow 
him to drive logs from a certain tract of land of 
which he is the owner. In order that we may 
familiarize ourselves with the proposition, I shall 
call upon Mr. Blodgett to outline such facts and 
details as will enable us to judge the bill upon its 
merits. Mr. Blodgett, please.” 

Blodgett rose to his feet, and in an address that 
lasted a full half hour, he harangued the commit¬ 
tee with generalities, regarding the vast amount of 
timber that could be made available to the use of 
mankind only by the erection of this dam. He laid 
long and impassioned stress upon the fact of the 
crying need of lumber for the carrying on of the 
war, his voice faltering with emotion as he depicted 
the battle fields of Belgium and France and the 
thousands of lives that were daily being sacrificed, 
endeavouring the while to create the impression that 
somehow this sacrifice was entirely due to the fact 
that the armies in Belgium and France were shy 
some boards. Not once did he hint at the rising 
price of lumber, but dwelt at length upon the pa- 


334 


Without Gloves 


triotic duty of American citizens to do everything 
within their power to further the production of 
lumber at this most momentous period of history. 
He wound up by stating that the facts in the case 
could be obtained more directly, and with more 
technical authority by the questioning of practical 
logging men—men who had been repeatedly over 
the ground, and who were thoroughly familiar with 
every phase and angle of the project. He would 
invite the committee to question Mr. King, fore¬ 
man of his Number Nine camp, and Mr. Leonard, 
foreman of his Number Eight camp. 

Blodgett sat down, and after a moment’s whis¬ 
pered conversation with the members of the com¬ 
mittee, the chairman called Mr. King. “Your 
name, please, in full?” 

“Samuel King.” 

“Occupation?” 

“Camp foreman.” 

“Logging camp?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where are you employed?” 

“I’m boss of Blodgett’s Number Nine.” 

“Where is this camp?” 

“On the Wild Goose River.” 

“Near the site of the proposed dam?” 

“Yes, right opposite to it.” 


The House Committee 


335 


“Now, Mr. King, will you tell the committee 
why it is necessary to build this dam? If Mr. 
Blodgett has camps already in operation, and is 
getting his logs to market, why should a dam be 
necessary to get out next winter’s cut?” 

“Blodgett’s loggin’ road runs to Number Eight. 
Their logs is loaded there, an’ ourn is hauled down 
an’ loaded there, too. But this here back trac’ is 
different. Blodgett would have to run his loggin’ 
road twenty mile further to reach it, an’ ten mile 
of it would be through swamp that ain’t got no 
bottom fer a loggin’ road except you’d build it on 
piles, an’ that would run the cost up to where there 
wouldn’t be nothin’ in it.” 

“Do you mean,” interrupted a committeeman, 
“that the timber on this back tract could not be 
taken out at a profit if this pile road would have 
to be built?” 

“Sure it couldn’t. Blodgett would lose money if 
he tried it.” 

“Now, Mr. King, as to the exact location of this 
dam. Why is it necessary to erect it precisely upon 
the north line of this certain section ten mentioned 
in the bill ? Why not above, or below that point ?” 

“That’s the only place where a dam could go in 
on account they’s a ridge that runs sort of cross- 
ways to the river that would hold back the water 


336 


Without Gloves 


of the pool. The river cuts through this here ridge 
at the north line of section ten, an’ that’s where the 
dam has got to go in. They ain’t no other ridge 
that would hold back the water.” 

“Have you ever had experience in driving logs 
on rivers of the size, or approximate size, of the 
Wild Goose?” 

“Yes, I’ve drove rivers of every size they is in the 
State.” 

“In your opinion, could the Wild Goose River be 
driven without the erection of this dam ? Could Mr. 
Blodgett drive the logs from a landing or dump 
on his back tract to the mills, or to a railway loading 
point without the erection of this dam?” 

“No. The river’s too shallow.” 

“How much will this dam raise the water level 
at, say, the lower boundary of this back tract?” 

“About two foot.” 

“And this tract, you say, is about twenty miles 
above the dam site?” 

“No, only a half a mile.” 

At this point one of Blodgett’s attorney’s flashed 
a danger signal to the chairman, and that worthy 
immediately steered the witness. “Mr. King, have 
you been thoroughly over the ground that would be 
flooded by the pool of this proposed dam ?” 

“Yes.” 


The House Committee 


337 


“Is there any land that would be so flooded that 
has a specific value other than stumpage value? I 
mean, is there any agricultural land—either being 
farmed at present, or that is capable of being 
farmed ?” 

“No.” 

“What is the nature of the land that will be flooded 
by the pool?” 

“Cut-over, mostly. Mebbe a little patch of timber 
here an’ there.” 

“That will do, Mr. King,” announced the chair¬ 
man, “Unless some member desires to ask further 
questions.” 

Nobody volunteered a question, and the chairman 
cleared his throat. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, “It seems that Mr. Blod¬ 
gett has set forth good and sufficient reasons for the 
building of this dam at the indicated location. How¬ 
ever, there seems to be certain opposition to the pro¬ 
ject.” He turned to MacCormack: “We will listen 
to what you have to say.” As MacCormack arose to 
his feet, Blodgett whispered to one of his attorneys 
who scribbled a hasty note which he passed to the 
chairman who read it as he asked his perfunctory 
questions: “What’s your name ?” 

“Patrick MacCormack.” 

“Place of residence?” 


33 » 


Without Gloves 


“Thunder Head, Minnesota.” 

“Occupation?” 

“Hotel keeper.” 

“On what grounds do you wish to offer opposi¬ 
tion to the passage of this bill?” 

“On th’ grounds av fairness an’ justice, sorr.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Oi mane thot av a tin-foot dam wuz to be built 
on th’ narth line av siction tin, ut wud flood th’ 
purtiest stand av timber in Minnesota from three to 
eight foot under water. Ut wud kill young stuff 
thot’s be’n tinded an’ nursed fer more thin twinty 
year. An’ ut wud ruin old stuff that’s standin’ more 
feet to th’ acre thin any virgin timber in thot part 
av th’ State.” 

“How much of this wonderful timber is there ?” 

“Three quarters—five hundred an’ forty acres av 
ut.” 

“Who owns it?” 

“Owld Paddy MacAlister.” 

“Where is this MacAlister? Why isn’t he here 
to state his own case?” 

“He’s in jail. He wuz put there-” 

The chairman rapped sharply upon his desk: 
“That will do. Just confine yourself to answering 
questions. We don’t want volunteered information.” 

“Have you always be’n a hotel keeper?” 



The House Committee 


339 


“No.” 

“What was your occupation, say, in nineteen hun¬ 
dred and ten?” 

“Oi wuz top loader fer Blodgett, in nineteen hun¬ 
dred an’ tin.” 

“And you left his employ in December of that 
year?” the chairman glanced at the scrap of paper 
in his hand: 

“Oi did.” 

“Have you been on friendly terms with Mr. Blod¬ 
gett since that time?” 

“No, sorr ” 

“Mr. MacCormack, is it not a fact that you 
brought a certain lawsuit against Mr. Blodgett, 
shortly after quitting his employ?” 

“Oi did. Oi sued um fer—” again the chairman 
rapped. 

“Is it not a fact that the court decided against you, 
and for Mr. Blodgett?” 

“Ut did, because Blodgett—” The sharp rapping 
of the chairman cut the sentence short. 

“That will do, Mr. MacCormack. Unless some¬ 
body wishes to question you further.” He glanced 
toward the other committeemen, who remained 
silent. The chairman continued, smilingly: “It 
seems that the only opposition that has developed 
up to the present moment is that of an admitted 


34 » 


Without Gloves 


enemy of Mr. Blodgett, in behalf of a jail bird.” In 
her chair, Mary MacAlister winced at the words as 
though she had been struck, and the violet eyes that 
she fixed upon the face of the speaker smouldered 
black. The man proceeded; “Is there any further 
opposition? If not, I think, that in view of the 
evidence, we can hardly do other than report this 
bill favourably.” 

“Just a moment, please.” The voice of the girl 
held a pleading note. The chairman bowed and the 
girl stood up. 

“I am Mary MacAlister,” she began, “The 
daughter of Paddy MacAlister, and it is our timber 
that will be ruined by the building of this dam. I 
want to ask you gentlemen to give me just ten 
minutes of your time to tell you in my own way 
about this timber.” 

Blodgett wriggled impatiently, and glanced at his 
watch. Blodgett’s attorneys rattled the papers in 
their laps, and glanced at their watches. The chair¬ 
man glanced at his watch, and cleared his throat. 
The girl did not wait for him to speak: “Ten 
minutes is not a long time, gentlemen. It is a very 
short time for me to try and make you see this tract 
of timber as it is today. I could talk for ten hours, 
and still there would be more to tell. Can I have ten 
minutes ?” 


The House Committee 


341 


Again the chairman cleared his throat: “Well, 
Miss MacAlister, it's a bit irregular. The best ends 
of an inquiry of this nature are served by intelligent 
questioning, which eliminates a mass of irrelevant 
material, that would otherwise be brought to the 
attention of the committee. However, if my col¬ 
leagues have no objection, out of deference to your 
sex, I will grant you the ten minutes you ask.” 

The violet eyes of the girl swept the faces of the 
colleagues, who proffered no objection, and she be¬ 
gan to speak. Almost from her first words she held 
the attention of every person in the room. Without 
once referring to any note or memorandum she 
launched forth facts and figures with a convincing 
precision. The latest Bureau of Forestry survey, of 
the visible supply, the present rate of cut, the acre¬ 
age of non-agricultural cut-over lands that lay a 
worthless waste in the track of the lumberman, fire 
loss figures, reforestation figures from the United 
States, Germany, and Denmark, the length of time 
required to produce a merchantable tree, and a dozen 
other timber facts that made even Blodgett forget 
to fidget, and sit at frowning attention. Then, sud¬ 
denly, she swung to her own forest and in a few 
brief words told of the fire lines, the strips of young 
stuff, and the intelligent harvesting of the ripe tim¬ 
ber. “So far as I know,” she said, in conclusion, 


342 


Without Gloves 


“this little tract of ours is the only piece of privately 
owned forest in the State that is being intelligently 
handled. It is being administered, gentlemen, in¬ 
stead of being wickedly and wastefully despoiled. 
There has never been any intelligent logging done 
in the State of Minnesota, or Michigan or Wiscon¬ 
sin, either. If you gentlemen really want to ac¬ 
complish something big, you have your work cut 
out for you—and you had better act while yet there 
is time. Pass reasonable timber tax laws, which will 
tax the cut, and not the standing timber—the same 
timber year after year. And establish a State stand¬ 
ard of merchantable timber. Put a reasonable tax 
on everything cut in conformity to this standard, 
and a prohibitive tax on sub-standard cut, and you 
will have done more to save the remaining timber 
and insure a wise harvesting of it, than any body 
of men has ever done in these United States! 

“This is not theory, gentlemen. The young stuff 
is there on our tract for people to see, and the mer¬ 
chantable stuff is there, scaling more board feet to 
the acre than when my father started to cut it more 
than twenty years ago. And that, gentlemen, is the 
tract of timber that Mr. Blodgett would flood and 
ruin! He has repeatedly tried to buy the timber, but 
always my father has refused to sell. As a matter 
of fact the timber on his back tract can easily be 


The House Committee 


343 


floated down the Wild Goose by simply putting in a 
crew to clean out the stream, exactly as all other 
driving streams of that size have always been cleared 
of obstruction. A ten-foot dam at the point indi¬ 
cated in this bill could not possibly raise the water 
one quarter of an inch at Blodgett’s back tract, which 
lies twenty miles above the location of the dam. As 
a matter of fact the north line of section ten, where 
he proposes to put in this dam is the lower, or south 
line of our timber. The only purpose of this dam is 
to flood our timber, and then to buy it in at the ap¬ 
praisers’ figures—?” 

“I object to that statement!” One of Blod¬ 
gett’s attorneys was upon his feet, waving his 
arm in the air, “As I understand it this inquiry 
is based upon matters of fact, and not upon the 
biased opinion of a party whose interests are adverse 
to ours.” 

The chairman glanced at his watch and snapped it 
shut. “The ten minutes is up,” he announced. “I 
am sure we are obliged to Miss MacAlister,” he 
said, ironically, “for the text-book information she 
has offered us, and also for the information that 
there has never been an intelligent lumberman in 
either Minnesota, Michigan or Wisconsin, until her 
father began work on his three quarters of land. 
Also, we are greatly obliged to her for her fore- 


344 


Without Gloves 


thought in outlining a policy for the State Legisla¬ 
ture to pursue in regard to all future timber legis¬ 
lation.” He paused and glanced around the room. 
“Is there anything further in the way of facts that 
anyone cares to bring to our attention ?” 

Blodgett himself arose to his feet: “Mr. Chair¬ 
man, in order to disabuse the minds of any of the 
committee members of anyTalse impressions that 
may have been created by any of the evidence 
brought forth, I should like to have you call upon 
Mr. Leonard, foreman of my Number Eight camp. 
Mr. Leonard is familiar with the MacAlister tract, 
having covered the ground thoroughly upon numer¬ 
ous occasions. And his opinion as a practical woods¬ 
man should be of value in this connection.” 

“Mr. Leonard, please,” called the chairman. 

All during the girl’s recital, Shirly Leonard had 
sat with downcast eyes listening with bated breath to 
the rapid fire of facts. Only once he glanced up to 
see young Tom Regan leaning forward in his chair 
drinking in every word of the girl’s utterance. He 
was conscious of a mighty pride as the convincing 
argument of the girl sank deep within him. “If I 
could only talk that,” he thought, “But she’d ought 
to give Blodgett more hell.” Then came the state¬ 
ment regarding Blodgett’s motives, and the swift 
interruption, and he knew that the girl had done 


The House Committee 


345 


wisely. The ironical words of the chairman angered 
him. He was afraid he was not going to be called 
on. “I didn’t come down here fer nothin’,” he de¬ 
termined, “If that guy don’t give me a chance to tell 
’em a thing er two, I’ll butt in before this here 
meetin’ busts up, an’ believe me I’ll spill ’em an 
earful!” 

Then he heard his own name called, and rose 
quickly to his feet. Young Tom Regan had glanced 
up swiftly at the name, and now sat looking straight 
into his eyes. Leonard knew that the man recog¬ 
nized him, but Regan gave no sign, just sat there 
waiting. The usual questions as to name, residence, 
and occupation, were followed by another. 

“Mr. Leonard, you are a practical woodsman?” 

Leonard hesitated an instant, and Blodgett 
answered, smiling: “If I may be allowed, I’ll answer 
for Mr. Leonard, whose natural modesty would 
rather forbid his doing himself justice. He is a 
practical, and very capable woodsman. My camp 
foremen are always practical woodsmen.” 

The chairman bowed acknowledgment, and pro¬ 
ceeded : “Now, Mr. Leonard, you are familiar with 
the MacAlister tract?” 

“Yes.” 

“Will you please state to the committee the present 
condition of this tract. I mean in comparison to 


346 


Without Gloves 


virgin stands of timber on contiguous or similarly 
situated lands.” 

“Sure, I make you, all right. But I didn’t eat no 
dictionary fer breakfast, an’ I can’t spiel it off like 
you gents can. This here piece of timber of Mac- 
Alister’s is partly cut-over. Some of it has be’n 
logged off pretty clean. One quarter ain’t be’n 
touched yet, an’ it makes a good check stand to 
gauge the rest by. All the bad stuff’s be’n took 
out, an’ every year they’re takin’ out the sound 
stuff that’s ripe. MacAlister’s workin’ to a standard 
of his own. The whole tract is protected by fire 
lines, an’ the cut-over part ain’t the kind of cut¬ 
over you gents is use’ to seein’. It’s growin’ young 
stuff that’s cornin’ on in strips. The stuff on the 
first strip replanted will average about six inches 
through, an’ standin’ thick as the hair on a dog, 
and sound as a dollar, because the fire’s be’n kep’ 
out. It’s stuff that’ll beat the virgin stand pretty 
near two-to-one. An’ the big stuff that’s be’n 
worked fer better’n twenty years will scale more to 
the acre today than the quarter that ain’t be’n 
touched. Fact is, gents, this here Blodgett’s a 
crook! His camp boss quit him night before last 
’cause he was an honest guy an’ wouldn’t stand fer 
lyin’ MacAlister out of his timber—” Blodgett and 
his two attorneys were on their feet, shouting ob- 


The House Committee 


347 


jections. One of the attorneys reached over and 
tried to drag Leonard into his seat. The chair was 
rapping for order. Above the hubbub sounded the 
voice of the greener: “Le’ go me or I’ll knock you 
fer a gool! I come down here to turn up a crook 
an’ I’m a-goin to do it! He doubled my wages fer 
feedin’ you guys a pack of lies! His timber that 
comes to within half a mile of the dam is nothin’ 
but swamp—his real stuff is twenty mile away—” 
The chairman hurried over and stood directly 
before Leonard who was hurling his words so 
that they rose distinctly above the pandemonium of 
noise. 

“Keep still! Shut up! Sit down! Do you hear? 
Before I order your arrest!” 

“Have me arrested, damn you! Frame me, like 
Blodgett did Tim Neely, so he couldn’t git here to 
tell the truth. But, I’ve told it—part of it!” ' A 
special officer, hearing the hubbub as he was passing 
through the corridor, opened the door and looked 
within. The chairman motioned to him: “Arrest 
that man for contempt!” he ordered. 

Leonard submitted quietly enough, and order was 
quickly established. As the officer started for the 
door with his prisoner young Tom Regan rose to his 
feet: “Mr. Chairman.” 

The chairman bowed: “Senator Regan.” 


348 


Without Gloves 


“As chairman of the Senate Committee of in¬ 
quiry into this proposed legislation, I wish to call a 
joint session of the two committees for three o’clock 
this afternoon.” 

“But—Senator, hem, it was understood, was it 
not, that should the House Committee recommend 
the passage of this bill, the Senate Committee would 
report it favourably? That was my—er—under¬ 
standing of the situation.” 

Young Tom Regan looked the chairman squarely 
in the eye: “Yes,” he answered, “I believe there 
was some such understanding. I, however, was not 
a party to it. I only heard of it this morning. And 
being adverse to any procedure that savours of rail¬ 
roading legislation through, I took the liberty of at 
tending this meeting. I am glad I did. I have 
heard a great deal here that has interested me ex¬ 
ceedingly, and I want to hear more. I am sure, also, 
that my fellow committeemen will want to inquire 
rather deeply into this matter.” He turned to the 
officer who held Leonard in charge: “You will have 
this witness in this room promptly at three o’clock 
this afternoon,” he ordered, and turned to the others, 
“You, also, will appear, prepared to answer questions 
before the joint committee.” 

One of Blodgett’s attorneys was upon his feet, 
playing for time: “Senator, I move you this meet- 


The House Committee 


349 

ing be carried over until next week. We cannot pos¬ 
sibly prepare our case by three o’clock/’ 

“Your case was prepared and ready at ten o’clock 
this morning,” reminded Regan. “It should be the 
same case before both committees.” 

“But certain—unforeseen contingencies have 
arisen that-” 

“Can doubtless be explained at three o’clock this 
afternoon as well as at any later date,” interrupted 
the Senator, coolly, and smiled to himself, as he 
intercepted the look that the violet eyes of Mary 
MacAlister flashed upon Leonard, as he passed out 
through the door in custody of the officer. 



CHAPTER XXIV 

THE JOINT COMMITTEE 

Young Tom Regan had almost reached a turn of 
the corridor when Mary MacAlister and Pat Mac- 
Cormack stepped from the door of the committee 
room. Leaving the hotel keeper to follow, his 
wooden foot clapping the floor noisily, the girl hur¬ 
ried after the retreating figure: “Senator Regan!” 
she called. 

The figure halted and turned to meet her. “Yes, 
Miss MacAlister?” 

The girl found herself groping for words: “I 
thought I’d ask—I wondered if—Oh, have they 
taken him to jail?” 

“Taken who to jail?” the kindly blue eyes were 
twinkling. 

“Shirly Leonard.” 

“No. Leonard is technically under arrest. He is 
in custody of a special officer who will see that he 
does not leave the building, and whose duty it will 


350 


The Joint Committee 351 

be to bring him before the committee meeting this 
afternoon.” 

“But, after that? After the meeting is over, what 
then?” 

“Well, then,” smiled the Senator, “If Mr. Percy 
Browning, chairman of the House Committee, does 
not see fit to withdraw his charge of contempt, I 
think Leonard will have to stand trial.” 

“Oh, if I could only see him—only tell him how 
sorry I am—how ashamed I aha that I didn’t trust 
him! But Neely told us that Blodgett had bribed 
him-” 

“Who is this Neely, and where is he?” 

“He was foreman of Blodgett’s Number Eight, 
the camp where Shirly Leonard works, and when 
Blodgett offered to double their winter’s wages for 
appearing before this committee, Neely quit, and as 
the train pulled into the station last evening Blodgett 
had him arrested for forgery-” 

“An’ a dorty frame-up ut wuz, Sinator! I’ve 
know’d Tim Neely since we wuz byes togither, an’ 
they ain’t a squarer man iver stood on his two feet.” 

“Your father, too, I believe, is under arrest?” 
questioned Regan. 

“Yes, father is hard to manage when his ‘Irish’ 
is up, and he attacked the men who arrested Neely, 
and they dragged him off to jail, too.” 



352 


Without Gloves 


“An’ Sinator, I thryed me domndest to git bail 
fer um this marnin’ to git um befoor th’ committee, 
but it wasn’t no use.” 

Regan nodded: “I’ll see what I can do between 
now and three o’clock,” he said, “And, let’s see, Miss 
MacAlister, you spoke a few moments ago of wish¬ 
ing to see young Leonard?” 

“Oh, can I?” the girl’s face lighted as she looked 
up into the Senator’s eyes which were once more 
twinkling. 

“I hope you won’t think too hard of me, Miss 
MacAlister,” he said, “if in my judgment, it seems 
necessary to place you in custody of a special officer 
to insure your appearance at the hearing.” And, 
without waiting for the girl to reply, he crossed the 
corridor and opened a door. Inside the room the 
girl saw Shirly Leonard seated comfortably at a 
window that looked out over the street, and at a 
desk sat the officer who had escorted him from the 
committee room. 

“Another prisoner for you, Jerry,” Regan an¬ 
nounced, “Just see that they get a good dinner, and 
don’t fail to bring them before the committee at three 
o’clock.” 

The officer saluted, and with the utmost gravity, 
he asked: “Are they to be allowed to talk together, 
Senator?” 


353 


The Joint Committee 

“I believe that the law is not very clear on that 
point, Jerry. I’ll have it looked up, and let you know 
in a couple of weeks. In the meantime you might 
just use your own judgment.” And, as the door 
closed on the prisoners and their jailer, the violet 
eyes flashed their thanks to the twinkling eyes of blue. 

In the corridor Pat MacCormack grabbed young 
Tom Regan’s hand: ‘‘Thank th’ Lard, there’s wan 
honest man in the ligislater! Oi don’t know how 
ut happened, Sinator. Ye must av bruk in wid a 
jimmy!” 

White with rage, Blodgett bundled King and his 
attorneys into a taxi and hustled them to his private 
office. “A fine pair of fixers, you are!” he stormed, 
when the door had closed behind them. “A pretty 
mess you’ve got us into—and God knows where it 
will end!” 

The older of the two attorneys answered: “I told 
you you were not giving us time. I strongly advised, 
even insisted upon not bringing this matter up until 
we had had more time to work with the Senate Com¬ 
mittee. We did the best we could. You certainly 
would not have advised approaching Young Regan! 
The best we could do in the time we had was to win 
the reluctant consent of a majority of the Senate 
Committee to report the bill favourably, providing it 
passed the House Committee.” 


354 


Without Gloves 


“Time! What’s time got to do with it? Do you 
think that in a month from now that young jack¬ 
anapes would be any more approachable than at the 
present? He’s a fool! He’s a poser—a dangerous 
idealist—bah! He’s got no business in politics!” 

“Just so,” admitted the attorney, dryly, “But the 
fact is, he’s in. And, as chairman of this particular 
committee, he’s in a position to make things rather 
uncomfortable for us. My idea in councilling delay 
until near adjournment was a two-fold one. First, 
because in the rush of last minute legislation, the 
Senate Committee would naturally be less inclined 
to spend time in detailed investigation, and in the 
second place it would have given us time to have 
thoroughly looked into this young Regan’s past. It 
is possible that at some time or other he has—er, 
committed some indiscretion, or behaved in some 
manner that were it made public, might embarrass 
him in his present pose.” 

“Nonsense,” cried Blodgett, “The young jackass 
has always been above reproach. Everyone in Min¬ 
neapolis knows him. I had him looked up before 
election. I spent good money trying to defeat him. 
He is not the type of men we want in the legislature. 
Old Tom Regan before him was the same kind. 
He’s an obstructionist!” Blodgett, who had been 
nervously pacing the floor halted suddenly, and 


355 


The Joint Committee 

glared at the two attorneys: “Well, what are we 
going to do? Don’t stand there making excuses— 
suggest something!” 

The older attorney flushed: “As a matter of fact 
Mr. Blodgett, our present predicament is due wholly 
to the failure of the man, Leonard, to deliver the 
goods. This man was of your own selection. It is 
hard to understand how a man of your years and 
experience could have been so completely taken 
in.” 

The face of the lumberman purpled, then went 
white with rage. “That’s right, blame me! It’s all 
my fault because a job I hired you to do is bungled! 
Don’t by any chance suggest anything that will get 
us out of the mess! Just stand there and try to 
unload the blame onto me!” 

King interrupted the senseless tirade: “Hold on 
a minute, Mr. Blodgett,” he advised, “I got an idee 
we kin handle this here business all right if we don’t 
lose our head.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, the old feller there was right when he said 
it was the greener spilt the beans-” 

“The traitor! The—the crook! I’ll fix him for 
that, if it costs me-” 

“You an’ me, both,” interrupted King, “But, we 
ain’t got no time to waste now. The way I Agger 




Without Gloves 


356 

it, this here greener will be the main witness this 
afternoon. Instead of wastin’ time tryin’ to git 
somethin’ on this here Senator, why not get some¬ 
thin’ on the greener?” 

“Get what on him? Out with it!” 

“Why, if we could show him up fer a crook an’ 
a double-crosser, an’ a ginuyne Noo York tough, 
that’s lived fer a while with a woman an’ then 
throw’d her down, an’ a coward to boot, an’ lives 
under different names, wouldn’t that kind of queer 
what he’s got to say before this here committee? 
Looks like they wouldn’t hang much weight onto 
what a bird like that told ’em!” 

“How can you prove these things ?” 

“Easy enough. The woman that he throw’d down 
is here in St. Paul, right now, an’ she knows all 
about him. I seen her an’ talked to her las’ night. 
She was askin’ him to take her back—but he 
wouldn’t.” 

“Where is this woman?” 

“Down to the Tivoli.” 

Blodgett touched a button upon his desk. “Call 
a taxi, at once,” he ordered, as a man appeared in 
answer to the bell. The lumberman turned to King: 
“Find this woman and bring her here as soon as 
possible.” 

“I’ll git her, all right, but she’ll prob’ly want to 


The Joint Committee 357 

see the colour of a little change before she’ll come. 
Them kind’s out fer the dough.” 

Blodgett handed the other a bill. “Tell her there 
will be more where that came from,” he said, and 
seating himself at his desk discussed the personnel 
of the committees with his attorneys until the fore¬ 
man returned with Lotta Rivoli. 

For an hour Blodgett and the two attorneys 
listened while the girl talked. As she finished the 
lumberman’s brow drew into a frown. “Good 
enough as far as it goes,” he admitted, “But, isn’t 
there something of a criminal nature that he has 
been guilty of? Has he ever been convicted of a 
crime?” 

The girl shook her head: “No, not as I know of.” 

Blodgett tried again: “Hem, possibly there is 
some criminal act he has performed, for which he 
has never been arrested? If you could, hem, think 
of such an act I should be glad to, er, triple the 
amount I have promised to pay you for your trouble 
in appearing before this committee.” 

“I make you all right, bo. But there’s nothing 
doing. You guys won’t care a damn about me, 
once you’ve used me. If I go ahead and spill a lot 
of lies, and they caught me at it, I’d do a stretch for 
perjury or something. You guys would duck from 
under, and I’d be the goat. I won’t tell nothing I 


Without Gloves 


358 

can’t prove if it comes to a show-down. If you 
want what I’ve got, I’ll sell it to you. If you don’t, 
I’m on my way.” 

“Yes,” interrupted King, “An’ he don’t care a 
damn about you, neither. He’s got another gal, 
now-” 

“Another girl!” 

“Yes, another gal. An’ if you don’t spill enough 
to queer him with her you ain’t got no show with 
him a-tall.” 

Hand in hand at the window of the room in the 
Capitol that looked over the street, Shirly Leonard 
and Mary MacAlister watched a taxi draw up at the 
curb. Blodgett and Sam King stepped out, followed 
by the two attorneys and a woman. Leonard started 
perceptibly at the sight of her, and the girl beside 
him looked quickly into his face. “What’s the mat¬ 
ter—dear?” she asked, in a whisper, and Leonard 
felt the tightening of the fingers within his own. 
For a moment he was silent as the trio crossed the 
sidewalk and ascended the broad steps. Then he 
looked down into the upraised violet eyes: “That’s 
Lottie Rivoli, kid,” he said, “She’s a moll I used to 
know a long time ago. I ain’t never told you nothin’ 
about myself, kid. I ain’t never had the chanct to. 
But this afternoon you’re goin’ to hear a few things 



359 


The Joint Committee 

that I’d ruther told you alone. Maybe, when you’ve 
heard ’em, it’ll be all off—what we’ve be’n figgerin’ 
and dopin’ out here in this room. Maybe you won’t 
never want to see me again. If you feel that way, 
it’ll be all right, kid. A guy’s got to take what he 
earns, I guess. It’ll be hard as hell, kid—I’d ruther 
die. But anyways I’ve learnt my lesson from 
knowin’ you, an’ young Tom Regan, an’ Tim Neely 
—an’ I’ll go straight, wherever I’m at. Old 
Blodgett, he’s prob’ly got her here to show me up, 
so these guys won’t believe nothin’ I say, but—” he 
paused abruptly, and a sudden gleam leaped into his 
eyes: “I’ll beat ’em to it!’’ he cried, “If they’ll let me 
talk I’ll-’’ 

“Hem-h-m-h-m,” the special officer lowered the 
newspaper in which he had been absorbed for a 
couple of hours, and lowered his feet from the desk. 
“Five minutes to three,’’ he announced, “I guess 
we’d better be goin’.” 

“Why there’s dad, and Tim Neely!’’ cried the girl, 
as they stepped into the corridor, and Leonard sum¬ 
moned a smile as the old Irishman rushed forward 
and grasped him by the hand: “Ah, Linerd, bye, 
ye’re a great lad! Pat MacCormack here has towld 
us all about ut! Ye had us fooled complate! An’ 
owld Blodgett, too. Ye’ll niver be wantin’ fer a j*ob, 
bye, as long as Paddy MacAlister has got a stick av 



360 


Without Gloves 


timber to his name.” The watery old eyes caught 
the slight flush upon the face of his daughter, 
“O-ho!” he cried, “So thot’s th’ way av ut! Well, 
Mary, gurl, ye’ll niver git a foiner—” “Do hush, 
dad! Please! Come, we must hurry!” and she 
turned to follow the officer, as big Tim Neely 
grasped Leonard by the hand. 

In the committee room Blodgett and King and the 
two attorneys were already seated. Lotta Rivoli 
was not with them, but an air of complacency seemed 
to have settled upon the four, who smilingly chatted 
among themselves. “Goin’ to spring her as a sur¬ 
prise,” thought Leonard to himself. “Well, I’ll 
surprise ’em, if they’ll only let me talk.” 

The meeting was called to order by Senator Regan 
who acted as presiding officer. A transcript of the 
record of the House Committee inquiry was read 
by a clerk, during which proceeding the chairman 
of that committee, together with several of its mem¬ 
bers fidgeted uneasily in their seats. 

At its conclusion Senator Regan called upon 
Blodgett, who, through his attorney, stated that he 
had nothing new to offer, but begged the privilege 
of introducing witnesses if he so desired to rebut 
new evidence offered by the opposition. 

This granted, the chair called upon Mary Mac- 
Alister to continue her remarks more particularly as 


36 x 


The Joint Committee 

they referred to her father’s timber. And for twenty 
minutes the girl talked, holding the undivided atten¬ 
tion, as during the morning session, of every person 
in the room. 

When she had finished, Regan called on Leonard: 
“The House Committee meeting adjourned, I be¬ 
lieve, Mr. Leonard, during the course of your re¬ 
marks.’ J (Titters from the members of the Senate 
Committee, who had just listened to the transcript.) 
“We would be pleased to have you continue if you 
have anything further to say.” 

Leonard stood up: “Mr. Regan, yer honour—I’ve 
got a mouthful to say. Them birds this momin’ 
wouldn’t let me say it, ’cause they didn’t want to 
hear it-” 

“I object to that statement!” Mr. Percy Browning, 
chairman of the House Committee, was on his feet. 

“I’ll say you do!” interrupted Leonard, “But, be¬ 
lieve me, bo, there’s a square guy runnin’ this show 
—” Roars of laughter from the members of the 
Senate Committee, which were re-echoed from the 
throats of Neely and MacCormack, who shouted 
“Atta Boy!” until silenced by the furious pounding 
of Regan’s gavel. 

“Just confine your remarks to the chair, please, 
Mr. Leonard,” advised Regan, when some semblance 
of order obtained, “You may proceed.” 



362 


Without Gloves 


“All right, Mr. Regan. But before I finish up 
tellin’ what I know about this timber business, there’s 
somethin’ else I want to say. It won’t take long, 
an’ I want you gents to get me right. It’s like this: 
I ain’t born in the woods. I ain’t never seen no 
timber till last fall when I went to work for Tim 
Neely at Blodgett’s Number Eight camp. I was a 
truck driver in Brooklyn till old Red Casey got holt 
of me an’ showed me where I could make a lot more 
jack, an’ make it easier with the gloves than I could 
drivin’ a truck. It wasn’t long till I cleaned up on 
the amateurs around the clubs, an’ then I started in 
on the professionals. Old Red wanted to manage 
me but Lefty Klingermann butted in an’ took me 
over to Union Market precinct where he was the 
whole show. Lefty was shakin’ down the whole 
precinct an’ cuttin’ it two ways with the bulls. All 
the crooks an’ the gams, an’ the saloon keepers, an’ 
dive keepers in the precinct was kickin’ in to him. 
He was rich, an’ gittin’ richer, but he wasn’t satis¬ 
fied. He’d got it in his head he wanted to manage 
a champ, an’ he picked me fer the one to go after 
the big feller. I took the name of Mike Duffy, an’ 
it run along, me knockin’ out one after another of 
the third raters an’ second raters, an’ a lot of has- 
be’ns, an’ goin’-to-be guys till it come to Kid Moro- 
witz.” 


The Joint Committee 363 

“I object to all this nonsense!” cried Blodgett’s 
attorney, springing to his feet, “What this witness 
is saying is neither relevant nor in any way pertinent 
to the case, and is inadmissible-” 

Cries from members of the committee, interrupted 
the man, “Sit down.” “Let the witness go on!” and 
the chairman rapped for order. 

“It seems to be the desire of this committee to 
hear what this witness has to say. This is not a 
court of law, and is not amenable to any rules of 
evidence. The will of the members is the sole 
measure of what is, or is not, admissible as evidence 
in this inquiry. The witness will please proceed* 
without further interruption.” 

“I guess all you gents remember how Patsy Gib¬ 
son that lives right here in St. Paul was billed to 
fight Kid Morowitz of Philly, an’ how the fight was 
off on account of Gibson gittin’ all busted up in 
his auto. An’ you remember how the winner of that 
fight was goin’ to challenge the champ. Well that 
give me my chanct. Lefty slips over to Philly, an’ 
he gets next to Keen, an’ the Kid, an’ arranges to 
have him fight me, instead of Gibson. It was a 
framed fight. The Kid was all in, on account his 
heart was bad, an’ he know’d he couldn’t never fight 
the champ anyways. But they made Lefty come 
acrost with a big bunch of jack an’ I was to win 



364 Without Gloves 

with a knockout in the seventh. We even rehearsed 
the round, an’ had it all down pat. I was into it as 
much as Lefty was. Livin’ the way I was amongst 
yeggs, an’ con-men, an’ dips, an’ gams, an’ gunmen, 
an’ every other kind of crook there is, an’ them all 
playin’ up to Lefty, it didn’t seem nothin’ much out 
of the way fer to frame a fight. I ain’t tryin’ to 
make you gents believe I didn’t know no better. I 
did. Old Red Casey he wouldn’t stand fer no fram¬ 
in’. He was a square guy, an’ he wanted me to 
be square, but I didn’t have sense enough to see it 
that way. All I could see was the jack, an’ I thought 
old Red was a fool. Easy money looked good to me 
no matter how it was got. I hadn’t learnt my lesson 
yet. But the lesson come gents, an’ I got what was 
cornin’ to me—an’ so did all the rest of the crooks 
an’ double-crossers. 

“They was a moll in it, too. She was a shifter— 
shoplifter, you’d call it, an’ she was the Kid’s girl. 
She seen how he was slippin’, so she switched over 
to me, an’ tipped it off to me that the Kid’s heart 
was bad. She was a smooth one, an’ had me goin’. 
I didn’t know then that she’d throw’d Bull Larrigan 
over fer Morowitz, nor that she was throwin’ Moro- 
witz over fer me. She claimed she hated the Kid, 
an’ only found out by accident about his heart. I 
believed her. I was a fool, but I ain’t the first guy 


The Joint Committee 365 

that’s be’n gypped by a skirt, at that. I know now 
she was playin’ us one agin’ the other. 

"Lefty he’d hired Bull Larrigan fer a sparrin’ 
pardner fer me, an’ Bull, he hated the Kid on ac¬ 
count of Lottie—that was her name, Dago Lottie. 
When he found out she’d throw’d the Kid over fer 
me, he hated me, too—only I didn’t know that then. 

"The odds was heavy agin’ me, an’ Lefty figgered 
on cleanin’ up big—him an’ the Police Captain, he 
was in on it, too. I had all my jack up on the fight, 
an’ so did Dago Lottie—an’ Lefty, an’ the Cap was 
robbin’ kid’s banks fer pennies to bet. 

"But I wasn’t satisfied with the framed knockout 
an’ I figgered if the Kid’s heart was bad I could get 
me a real knockout, so I got Bull Larrigan to train 
me up on a heart punch that would knock the Kid 
fer a gool, when he give me the openin’ fer the fake 
knockout. Everything was set. Only it didn’t 
work. The Kid beat me to it. I was gypped. When 
I made the play I had to give him an openin’ that 
was all framed fer him to swing to my jaw an’ miss 
—well, gents, he didn’t miss. Believe me he landed, 
an’ follered it up with another, an’—the next thing 
I know’d I was down on the canvas an’ it heavin’ 
an’ pitchin’, till it had me huntin’ fer hand-holts. I 
could hear the referee countin’ me out. I wouldn’t 
of cared if he’d counted a hundred. Then the gong 


366 Without Gloves 

rung. It saved me from gittin’ knocked out that 
round—but I got mine in the next. The jolt he 
handed me got my goat. When the eighth started, 
I stepped onto the canvas but my nerve was gone. 
Seems like I ahvays had a yellow streak in the ring 
—I never noticed it, other ways, but when I would 
face a man with gloves on his hands, it was always 
there, even when I know’d I could knock him out, 
way down inside of me, I know’d I was afraid. 
When Morowitz come at me in the eighth, I jest quit 
cold. Yes, gents, seemed like I couldn't face them 
eyes an* them gloves. So I turned an' run fer the 
ropes, an’ believe me, gents, if they hadn't of be’n 
there I'd of run further. It was a cowardly trick, 
a yeller dog of a trick, but I done it. An' Red Casey 
throwed up the sponge. 

“The sports had ought to mobbed me, but they 
didn’t an’ I got away. The worst of it was, if I’d 
of stayed a minute in that round I’d of got my man. 
He was all in—an’ everyone seen it but me. All 
I could see was his eyes, an’ his gloves. 

“That’s about all there is to it. I was broke, an' 
so was Lefty an' the Cap, an' Lottie—an’ she didn’t 
lose no time in lettin’ me know how much she cared 
fer me. She throw’d in with Bull Larrigaif agin. 
An’ believe me gents, w’en I seen Lefty Klingermann 
whisperin’ to a couple of his gunmen, I beat it. I 


The Joint Committee 367 

made my getaway an’ hit the rattler fer Chicago. 
In the mornin’ I seen in the paper where Kid Moro- 
witz had got bumped off. An’ they figgered I had, 
too. In the same paper was a piece about where the 
Cap blow’d his brains out. I was afraid to stay, 
in Chicago—afraid Lefty would get me there like 
he got Coxy Wesson. Coxy gypped Lefty an’ beat 
it, but Lefty got him—in Denver. So I hit fer Min¬ 
neapolis, an’ that day I seen in the paper where they 
was huntin’ Mike Duffy fer bumpin’ off Kid Moro- 
witz. They’d got wise that the fight was framed, 
an’ Lefty had steered the cops an’ the reporters that 
it was me bumped him off fer gyppin’ me. I was 
on the run right, then. Not only Lefty was after 
me but the bulls, too—an’ believe me, I know’d I 
wouldn’t have a chanct in the world if they brought 
me back. Them guys would of framed me an’ it 
would of be’n the buzzer fer mine. 

“I got a job in Minneapolis drivin’ truck. The 
guy I worked fer was a square guy—a guy that 
worked harder than the men he hired. I’d had time 
, to do a lot of thinkin’ by that time, an’ the more 
I watched this guy, the more thinkin’ I done. I’d 
always said like all them guys I’d run with, that a 
guy was a fool to work. Easy money looked better 
to me, but I got to thinkin’ about them easy money 
guys, an’ how this here easy money don’t never stick 


368 


Without Gloves 


to 'em long. Then there was this here gent I was 
workin’ fer, he wasn’t huntin' no easy money—he 
worked hard fer his, an’ he had more jack than any 
of ’em. An’ besides that he was square. 

“So I learnt how it paid to be square, an’ I fig- 
gered on keepin’ square myself. Then, one day 
when I was haulin’ a load along the street, I seen 
two New York dicks that I know’d. They was goin’ 
up the court house steps the last I seen of ’em, an’ 
believe me, I figgered that’s the last I wanted to see 
’em! So I run the truck to the garage where we 
kep’ it, an’ left it beside the curb, an’ hit a freight 
goin’ north. 

“Other guys crawled into the box car next day, 
an’ when they piled off so did I. I hired out to 
Tim Neely to run Blodgett’s tractor, an’ I be’n there 
ever since. 

“You gents are wonderin’ why I told you all this. 
That’s easy. Last night I seen this Dago Lottie 
here in St. Paul. She told me Lefty Klingermann 
an’ his gunmen was electrocuted yesterday fer 
bumpin’ off Kid Morowitz. Sam King was along, 
an’ when I left the place, I guess he pumped her 
about me. She’s in this buildin’ now. She come in 
with Blodgett an’ his gang. I guess they figgered 
that after I’d told what I know, they’d ring her in 
to show where I come from, an’ what kind of a guy 


369 


The Joint Committee 

I am, so you gents wouldn’t believe nothin’ I told 
you. But, gents, the guy that was Mike Duffy, back 
there in New York, ain’t the same guy that’s talkin’ 
to you here. Mike Duffy was a crook—jest as much 
as though he’d of be’n a dip or a stick-up. Shirly 
Leonard has learnt it don’t pay, an’ he’s learnt who 
the real fools is. This here ain’t no pretty story, an’ 
it ain’t no easy story fer a guy to tell about hisself, 
but, gents, I’ve come clean. There ain’t no one got 
nothin’ on me, now—an’ believe me, there ain’t no 
one goin’ to have.” He paused and looked squarely 
at the chairman, “So, now, Mr. Regan, yer honour, 
if there’s anything you want to ask me about this 
here deal, I’ll tell you all I know about it. An’ I’ll 
hand it to you straight.” 

“In the first place, Mr. Leonard, you may state 
whether or not you are in any way financially in¬ 
terested in this MacAlister timber?” 

“No, sir. I ain’t financially interested in nothin’ 
except the wages I got cornin’ from Blodgett.” 

“I believe you gave your occupation as camp fore¬ 
man?” 

Leonard grinned; “Yes, sir.” 

“How long have you been a camp foreman?” 

“Since night before last. When Tim Neely quit 
Blodgett give me his job. I told him he better get 
someone else, because there’s a whole lot I ain’t hep 


37 » 


Without Gloves 


to, about runnin’ a camp. But Blodgett said he 
wanted me fer foreman till after this meetin’ because 
you gents would believe what a camp foreman said 
about timber. He said after this meetin’ was over 
I’d go back to the tractor work.” 

Blodgett’s attorney was on his feet: “Mr. Chair¬ 
man, I wish to call attention to the fact that the 
testimony of this man should have no weight what¬ 
ever. Aside from being a self-admitted crook, and 
a coward, he has stated that he has never been in the 
woods until some three or four months ago, and 
that he has only been a camp foreman for a matter 
of a day or two.” 

“I think we can waive the point of his experience 
and capability, as Mr. Blodgett, himself, has gone 
on record before the House Committee with the 
statement that Mr. Leonard is a very capable and 
practical woodsman. As to the character of the 
witness, the committee will draw its own conclusions 
as to the value of his testimony. 

“Mr. Leonard, do you know the reasons for Neely 
quitting his job?” 

“Sure, I do. He quit because he wouldn’t help 
Blodgett steal MacAlister’s timber. He up an’ told 
Blodgett to his face he was a crook, an’ that a dam 
on the north line of section ten wouldn’t raise the 
water at the back tract, an’ that all he wanted to put 


37i 


The Joint Committee 

it in fer was to flood MacAlister’s timber, an’ kill 
all the young stuff an’ buy in the merchantable stuff 
at appraisers’ Aggers. An’ then Tim quit.” 

“At that time did you believe that Blodgett was 
not honest in his purpose in building this dam?” 

“Sure, I did. I know a crook when I see one.” 

“Believing as you did, why didn’t you quit when 
Neely did?” 

Leonard smiled: “Say, Mr. Regan, Tim Neely 
ain’t never had no dealin’s with crooks till now. He 
ain’t hep to ’em. Me, I ain’t had no dealin’s with no 
one else, hardly, till I hit Minneapolis last summer. 
I know ’em, an’ I know that if you want to turn up 
a crook that’s got a lot of jack, you got to get him 
from the inside. You can’t come out an’ Aght ’em 
in the open. What show has a guy got that lays his 
cards on the table when the other guy has got his up 
his sleeve? I know’d Tim Neely wouldn’t never get 
to that meetin’ this mornin’ to tell what he know’d. 
An’ if I’d of quit I wouldn’t neither. Tim’s lucky 
to get off with gettin’ a pinch framed on him.” 

Regan glanced at the transcript on the table be¬ 
fore him: “You mentioned this morning that Blod¬ 
gett was doubling your wages. Can you state the 
reason for this extra pay?” 

“Yes, sir. He said he would double our wages, 
Neely’s an mine, if we’d testify like he told us to. 


372 


Without Gloves 


After Neely had gone he says to me that Sam King 
would testify first, an’ I was to back up what he 
said. I was to say that MacAlister’s stuff was mostly 
cut-over, an’ that the dam would raise the water so 
Blodgett could drive the logs down from the back 
tract .' 9 

“When, and in what form, were you to receive 
this money?” 

“That’s what I wanted to know, an’ when I asked 
Blodgett, he says his agent would hand it to me in 
cash after I’d got through testifyin’. I says how 
would it be to split the jack fifty-fifty? I mean, 
come acrost with half of it now, an’ the rest after 
I delivered the goods. That didn’t make no hit with 
him, he seemed to take it sad that I didn’t trust 
him, but he pulled out his leather an’ peeled off the 
jack.” Thrusting his hand into his pocket, Leonard 
withdrew the roll of bills and stepping forward, laid 
them on the table in front of Regan. 

White with fear and rage, Blodgett leaped to his 
feet, a long trembling finger pointed toward the 
chairman: “It’s a lie!” he shouted, “Every word 
of it is false! I never paid him any money! I 
never even saw that money. It is his word against 
mine-” 

The pounding of the gavel interrupted the tirade. 
Regan spoke quietly: “Just so, Mr. Blodgett, and 



The Joint Committee 373 

the members of this committee, bearing that fact in 
mind, will draw their own conclusions.” 

“Now, Mr. Leonard, just one thing more that 
does not seem exactly clear. Mr. King stated before 
the House Committee that in order to reach this 
back tract with a railroad it would be necessary to 
construct some twenty miles of track, about ten miles 
of which would necessitate driving piling in order 
to get a solid road bed through swamp land. Is that 
a fact?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Then, later Mr. King stated that the dam would 
raise the water about two feet at this tract, and 
when asked if that meant at a distance of twenty 
miles, he answered, ‘No, only a half a mile.’ 

“Can you explain why twenty miles of railroad 
would have to be constructed to reach a point only 
a half a mile distant?” 

“Yes, Blodgett told us he had just bought a strip 
along the river that reached from the back tract 
down to within a half a mile of the dam. He said 
he done that so we could say that the dam would 
raise the water at the tract without lyin’.” 

“Does this strip contain good merchantable tim¬ 
ber, such as for instance is on the back tract?” 

“No, it ain’t nothin’ but swamp stuff, cedar, an’ 
tamarack, an’ balsam that ain’t worth nothin’.” 


374 


Without Gloves 


Several moments of dead silence passed, as 
Senator Regan turned the pages of the typewritten 
transcript. At length he looked up: “That will do, 
Mr. Leonard, I think.” He turned to Blodgett, 
“Have you anything further to offer?” 

“Nothing except to deny in toto everything that 
man has said. His whole testimony has been a pack 
of clumsy lies. And he has not heard the last of this. 
Til prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law! 
I’ll show him!” 

“That will do. This committee is not interested 
in your threat excepting, of course, to defend any 
witness who has appeared before it from persecu¬ 
tion.” He turned and faced the members of the two 
committees. “Gentlemen, unless any of you desire 
to recall any witnesses for further questioning, I 
think we may consider this inquiry closed.” He 
paused and glanced about him, but no one inter¬ 
rupted. “In your opinion is it necessary that we 
further consider this bill?” 

“Kill it!” cried one of the members. 

Another rose to his feet: “Mr. Chairman, in 
view of the evidence submitted, I am of the opinion 
that any further inquiry into the merits of this mat¬ 
ter is more within the province of the Grand Jury, 
than of a legislative committee. I move you, sir, 
that this committee kill this bill, and that it take 


375 


The Joint Committee 

steps to have the whole matter brought to the at¬ 
tention of the Grand Jury as soon as it is assembled.” 
“ Second the motion!” 

As the motion carried it was noticeable that the 
faces of several members of the House Committee 
were nearly as pale as the face of Blodgett, who was 
making his way hurriedly toward the door, closely 
followed by King and the two attorneys. 


CHAPTER XXV 


WITHOUT GLOVES 

From the little group that gravitated about the 
chairman’s table the violet eyes of Mary MacAlister 
sought the face of Senator Regan: 

“Oh, how can we ever thank you—for saving 
our timber? You don’t know what it means 


From the corridor a nervous, querulous voice 
sounded shrilly through the open door: “I want 
my money! And I want it now!” 

All eyes turned toward the door where Blodgett 
was endeavouring to push past the woman who 
blocked his path. “Keep still, you fool!” growled 
an attorney at Blodgett’s side. 

“I’m a fool, am I?” cried the voice, rising to a 
higher pitch of nervous intensity. “Well, maybe 
I ain’t such a fool as you think I am! You can’t 
get away with nothing like that with me! I wasn’t 
made in a minute! I been here all the time waiting 
376 



Without Gloves 


377 


to tell what I know about Mike Duffy, and if you 
didn’t give me a chance to, it ain’t my fault. You 

come across with that century, or I’ll-” The 

sentence was interrupted sharply as King and the 
two attorneys forced their way between Blodgett 
and the woman, thrusting her roughly aside, two 
of them barring the way while one of the attorneys 
hurried Blodgett down a side corridor. Baffled, 
trembling with insane rage, the wild eyes of the 
woman in the doorway swept the group about the 
table, and came to rest for a moment upon the face 
of Shirly Leonard. Instantly her excited brain 
turned from Blodgett and the next moment she 
faced Leonard at arm’s length: “You yellow dog!” 
she screamed, “you thought you could sneak away 
from me! But, I found you! I ain’t good enough 
for you, now! You throw’d me down for her!” 
pointing a forefinger trembling with rage almost 
into the face of Mary MacAlister, who was staring 
at her in wide-eyed astonishment. A wild, shrill 
laugh issued from the heavily rouged lips: “Take 
him, then! I’ll show you the colour of his yellow 
blood!” The voice rose to a shriek, and as she 
whirled upon Leonard the white hand flashed into 
the cheap fur muff. The next instant, in the back- 
drawn hand the horrified onlookers caught the glint 
of a long thin blade of steel. And in that instant, 



378 


Without Gloves 


too, the big hand of Tim Neely closed about the 
slender white wrist, there was a sharp cry of pain, 
and the stiletto rang upon the floor, as the woman 
fought with the ferocity of a trapped wild-cat to 
free herself from the grip of the big man who held 
her. Others went to his assistance, and a few 
moments later Dago Lottie was powerless, but still 
straining and writhing in insane fury, while from 
her lips poured a torrent of curses and vile epithets 
that struck shame to the hearts of the most hardened 
of the listeners. 

‘‘This is a case for the police/’ said Senator 
Regan, “just call the wagon, Jerry.” At the men¬ 
tion of the police the curses redoubled in fury until 
they became but a succession of incoherent and 
meaningless shrieks. 

“Can’t you give her something to quiet her, Doc¬ 
tor?” asked Regan, turning to one of the com¬ 
mittee members. 

The medical man haa already reached the strug¬ 
gling woman’s side, and bending down, with thumb 
and forefinger he forced the lids apart, and stared 
closely into the glaring eyes. 

“Case for the hospital first,” he said, turning 
away: “Coke. She’s a snow-bird. I guess she’s 
about—done.” 

The committee members straggled from the room 


Without Gloves 379 

in one’s and two’s, the policemen removed the 
shrieking woman, and as quiet was once more re¬ 
stored young Tom Regan turned to Leonard, with 
a smile. “So that’s where you went, the day you 
left your truck standing in front of the garage, and 
my mixer men yelling for sand? I spent quite a 
little time, and some money hunting for you, and 
lots of the boys on the job hunted, too.” 

“Yes, sir. That’s where I went,” answered the 
younger man, “I hated to go. I know’d you’d 
think I snuck off on account of bustin’ the mixer. 
But it wasn’t that. It’s just like I told it. I know’d 
they wanted me in Noo York fer a murder I didn’t 
know nothin’ about, an’ I know’d with Lefty 
Klingermann agin’ me I wouldn’t of stood no show. 
He’d of framed me sure, to git even fer me losin’ 
the fight, an’ to save his own hide to boot. An’ 
when I seen Boyle an’ Barnes go into the court 
house I know’d Minneapolis wasn’t no place fer 
me. ’Cause, believe me, when them two dicks goes 
after a guy they git him! I figgered on huntin’ 
you up in the spring an’ tellin’ you about it, an’ if 
what I had cornin’ wasn’t enough to pay fer fixin’ 
the mixer I figgered on cornin’ acrost with the dif¬ 
ference. Maybe I hadn’t ought to done it, with 
every hour countin’ to finish the job, but I didn’t 
have much time to figger it out, an’ if that car of 


2,8o 


Without Gloves 


steel had of hit them cement cars it would of strung 
dead wops clean to the main track. But, at that, 
I’d of stayed an’ faced the music. I know I’m yel- 
ler—but I ain’t that yeller.” 

Young Tom Regan’s eyes were twinkling: “Yes*” 
he answered, dryly, “I have heard that you were 
yellow. Clarity told me about the time you wouldn’t 
stand up to his boy, Denny, with the gloves on. 
But the fact is, I’m hunting for a man that’s afflicted 
with just your brand of yellowness. In the first 
place I don’t often catch men working nights and 
omitting to turn in their overtime. And in the 
second place it is still harder to find a man that’s 
got a clear enough head to know exactly the right 
thing to do in an emergency. And in the third 
place, it’s hardest of all to find a man that has got 
nerve enough to go ahead and do that thing when 
he’s got to look death squarely in the eyes to do it.” 
He paused and let his eyes rove over the faces of 
the others: “You people who know this man,” he 
said, “ought to know just how yellow he is. He 
worked for me last summer, driving truck. One 
day he was waiting beside the mixer to unload, 
when a car of steel broke away on an incline and 
came rushing down the track straight for a couple 
of cars of cement that a gang of wops were un¬ 
loading. Everyone else on the job began to run 


Without Gloves 381 

and yell, or else froze in their tracks. There was 
a derailing device near the foot of the incline—but 
no one thought to throw it. Leonard saw the dan¬ 
ger and deliberately ran his truck onto the track in 
front of the onrushing car and dumped his load of 
sand. The car hit the sand just as he was pulling 
off the track, tipped over, whirled around and 
brought up against the concrete mixer platform. 
There wasn’t a man hurt.” He paused and turned 
abruptly upon Leonard, “Where would you be now 
if your truck had stalled on the track, or if that car 
of steel had whirled the other way when it hit?” 

“Well—hell,” stammered Leonard, “a guy 
couldn’t set there an’ see them wops all smashed 
up, could he?” 

Tim Neely snickered: “They was some talk up 
in the woods about him bein’ shy on guts,” he said, 
“on account he wouldn’t fight a couple of King’s 
men that kind of throw’d it into him. But I take 
notice that when they come a blizzard that would 
of snowed the log road over fer all the rest of the 
winter, he run his tractor up an’ down it, fer forty 
straight hours—with the storm that bad the team¬ 
sters was tyin’ one another together to git from 
the bunk house to the stables to feed the horses. 
An’ agin, when the hay shed was afire an’ the wind 
bio win’ the blaze right onto a carload of gasoline 


Without Gloves 


382 

the greener, here, he run his tractor right through 
flames that would of burnt the devil hisself to a 
cinder, an’ us yellin’ to him to go back, an’ hooked 
onto the car an’ drug it down the track—the boys 
up there in the woods, they kind of quit playin’ him 
fer a coward. A man that would call him one 
around Number Eight would kind of git hisself 
in a argument. If that’s what it means to be yel- 
ler-” 

“I’m yeller, all right, an’ I know it,’’ interrupted 
Leonard. “I hate a yeller guy, same as everyone 
else does. An’ I’ve tried to git over it, an’ I can’t. 
I don’t never notice it till I face some guy with 
gloves on—then it hits me all to onct. I can’t face 
’em! It’s what kep’ me from bein’ a champ.” 

Young Tom Regan placed his hand on Leonard’s 
shoulder: “Never you mind that, my boy,” he 
said in a voice a trifle more gruff than usual, “I 
doubt if there’s a man living that isn’t afraid of 
something. It is the heritage of our cave-men 
ancestors. Just you remember this, that the big 
thing—the big fight—the big battle that really 
counts in this world is fought without gloves. And 
in this battle you are proving yourself to be very 
much a man. There is a moral courage that has 
nothing whatever to do with physical courage. The 
moment you left the environment of the underworld 



Without Gloves 


383 


behind you, this moral courage, all unknown to your¬ 
self, began to assert itself—to develop. And, that it 
has made rapid and healthy progress is evinced by 
your testimony before this committee. Easy money 
don’t look good to you any more and you have 
learned to detest a crook.” 

“You said it,” answered Leonard. 

Regan smiled: “But, I didn’t come here to preach 
any sermons. The point is, what are you going to 
do, now? I rather imagine you will find yourself 
out of a job.” 

“Not while Paddy MacAlister’s got a stick av 
timber standin’, he ain’t out av no job!” cried the 
little old Irishman, who had been an interested lis¬ 
tener to all that had been said. 

Leonard shot a swift glance into the eyes of the 
girl who stood close beside him. It was a question¬ 
ing glance—a glance of world-old appeal, straight 
from his heart to hers. She knew now—had heard 
from his own lips the story of his sordid past. 
What would her verdict be? For those two stand¬ 
ing there side by side, the others ceased to exist. In 
all the world they two stood alone. Leonard felt 
the blood pounding at his eardrums as he restrained 
an impulse to reach out and gather the girl into his 
two arms and strain her close against his breast. In 
that moment he knew, as he had never known before, 


Without Gloves 


384 

the meaning of love—a strong man’s love for the 
one woman in the world. And then—fingers were 
closing about his own—and deep within the violet 
eyes a light glowed—soft and warm and all-en¬ 
compassing, it was—and he knew it for the light of 
love. A voice was whispering into his ear: “Where- 
ever you go, dear, I will go, too. You are my man, 
now—mine.” 

Young Tom Regan cleared his throat gruffly and 
moved some papers on the table. “As I was going 
on to say, I need a man of your calibre—need him 
badly. I-” 

Leonard interrupted him, “Mr. Regan, I’d ruther 
work fer you than anyone I ever seen, an’ that’s 
the truth. But, I can’t do it. I wouldn’t never be 
satisfied out of the woods no more. I don’t know if 
I can put it acrost to you—like I see it. It ain’t 
just a job—it’s more than that. It’s—it’s somethin’ 
so big that you can’t see the end of it—only the 
beginnin’. Ever since I seen MacAlister’s timber, 
I be’n thinkin’ about it. I bought books an’ I be’n 
readin’ about it. An’ the more I think an’ the more 
I read, the bigger the job gits. It’s a job that’s too 
big fer any man to handle, but it’s a job that’s got 
to be done. She told you a little bit about it, but 
there’s a lot more to it than that. If you ain’t never 
been up there in the timber country, you won’t make 



Without Gloves 385 

me. I wisht I could make you see it like I’m begin- 
nin’ to see it—millions of acres of cut-over, that 
onct was big timber, goin’ to waste—the young 
stuff that’s tryin’ to git a start killed off every few 
years by fires that could be prevented—an’ the log¬ 
gers addin’ to that waste acreage as fast as God will 
let ’em! Thousands of square miles that ain’t worth 
one cent to the State, nor to no one else—an’ all on 
land that could be producin’ a crop that would make 
all the money in the State now look like a shoe¬ 
string 1” 

Regan looked puzzled as he stared into the eyes 
that were gazing so earnestly into his own: “But, 
surely, most of this land is not fit for growing 
crops! It has Keen tried. We, ourselves, tried it. 
Years ago the Regan Construction Company was 
the Regan Lumber Company. My father was the 
active head of the concern then, and he logged off 
some forty thousand acres. There are still some ten 
thousand acres of virgin stand on the tract, but the 
point is, this cut-over land is not fit for farming. 
At first my father sold off a few forties cheap to 
settlers, but they made a dismal failure of their at¬ 
tempt at farming. The sand wouldn’t grow crops. 
And between the droughts and the frost they all 
went under.” The man paused and smiled, “So he 
gave them their money back, and got called a fool. 


386 


Without Gloves 


After that he hired an expert to make a land survey, 
but his report was unfavourable to any attempt at 
colonization, so he dropped the matter. But, he 
proved that it can’t be farmed.” 

Leonard listened breathlessly and when the man 
finished he broke in: “But, it can be farmed! The 
trouble was that your old man an’ this here expert 
wasn’t hep to the right kind of farmin’! Farmin’ 
to them meant raisin’ grain, an’ potatoes, an’ a lot 
of stuff like that. Listen, Mr. Regan, what did that 
land grow to start out with? What did God 
Almighty seed it down to, an’ what did he raise 
on it?” 

“Why—timber, of course.” 

“Yes, sir, timber! An’ land that will grow timber 
onct will grow timber an’ better timber than it ever 
did grow. I ain’t runnin’ down God, Mr. Regan, 
but he’s got a lot else to tend to besides raisin’ tim¬ 
ber. Reforestin’ this here cut-over ain’t no side¬ 
line. It’s got to be the main job of them that tackles 
it. Timber can be raised at a profit just like any 
other crop—an’ it ain’t just book talk, neither—Mac- 
Alister here is doin’ it—an’ he’s be’n doin’ it fer 
better’n twenty years. Folks says he’s crazy, but, 
Mr. Regan, if they was thousands more that was 
crazy like him, a few years from now they’d be a 
forest where there’s nothin’ but worthless cut-over 


Without Gloves 


387 

land today! An’ there ain’t no one had ought to 
know how bad that forest’s needed better than you 
do. What are you payin’ fer lumber, now—an’ 
what did you pay twenty or thirty years ago? An’ 
what’s more, what are you goin’ to pay fer it twenty 
or thirty years from now? When there ain’t any 
more timber left what are you goin’ to do? An’ 
the guys that knows says that twenty or thirty years 
will see the finish! What are you goin’ to do about 
it?” 

Young Tom Regan stared in astonishment at the 
young man who, with face flushed with excitement, 
hurled these questions at him. “Why—why—I 
don’t know. I never gave any particular thought 
_>> 

“Well, it’s time you was givin’ it some particular 
thought, an’ damn’ particular thought! You can do 
a lot of good here in the legislature if you onct see 
the need of laws that’ll make it harder an’ harder 
to destroy forests, an’ easier an’ easier to grow ’em! 
You’ve got little kids—I seen ’em one day down on 
the job. What are they goin’ to do fer timber? 
This here reforestation business is only just startin’. 
When folks wakes up to the importance of it—it’s 
goin’ a-whoopin’—it’s goin’ to be one of the biggest 
things in the whole country. What are you goin’ 
to leave them kids—a lot of worthless cut-over—or 



388 


Without Gloves 


a forest that’s a better forest than the virgin stand 
yer old man butchered?” 

Young Tom Regan’s eyes lighted, suddenly: 
“Do you mean that this land of mine can be re¬ 
forested? That a forest—as good or better than 
the virgin stand can be grown on my tract?” 

“Yes, I mean that—just exactly that! An’ you 
can make money doin’ it, an’ yer kids’ll make more 
money on the same ground than yer old man made.” 

“But—how? What will it cost? Who can do 
it?” 

“I can do it!” came the reply quick as a flash, 
“You say there’s ten thousand acres that ain’t be’n 
cut yet. I can make them acres pay fer reforestin’ 
the forty thousan’ acres that ain’t nothin’ but a 
liability to you, now. It ain’t no guess work. It’s 
facts. You turn me loose on that tract, an’ I’ll 
never ask you fer one cent of money fer wages nor 
expenses nor nothin’ after the first two years. An’ 
in the next five years I’ll pay you back out of the 
profits, what you put in, an’ I’ll show you young 
pine cornin’ on in strips on yer cut-over. An’ what’s 
more, before you an’ me cash in you’ll be draw in’ 
down a profit out of the first strips of young stuff 
—box stuff an’ the like of that. An’ when we’re 
through, yer kids an’ their kids will be loggin’ real 
pine.” He paused and, raising his hand, let it rest 


Without Gloves 


389 


lightly upon Mary MacAlister’s shoulder: “Let me 
try it, Mr. Regan, let us try it! If you’ll let us put 
a camp in the big stuff, an’ give us Tim Neely fer 
boss we can do it—can’t we, girl?” 

“We certainly can!” cried the girl, her eyes shin¬ 
ing, “Oh, Mr. Regan, if you would only let us try! 
It would be our big chance. We can make good— 
I know we can!” 

The big hand of Senator Regan smote his thigh 
a resounding whack: “By George! I believe you 
can!” he cried. “All right, Leonard—go ahead!” 
He paused and the blue eyes twinkled as he glanced 
into the face of the girl, “Only I guess you want 
Neely, here, for camp foreman—not boss.” 


The End 





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